he has brown eyes, maybe hazel perhaps blue or green

when you become wild, and the living part is issued forth
with abandon
the blood will flow and burn with the alacrity of starlight
you will hear wraiths of words begging for attention, your temple
will resound, a division bell, you will tremble with a vibration far from the
world you leave behind, your footsteps heavy with poignancy,
your heart insatiable with the breath of a new found lover,
you will knock first then break down iron gates stinging with the
salt of your tears, coming home, you and I are always
coming home

you will look into the distant mirror and wonder what happened to your
eyes, you will ask yourself about colour and reflection but you
won't really care for your power is almighty and you trifle not it
away, you have mists hovering around your shoulders and your hair
is white as snow,
you are a living mountain, you are the rage of angels
embattled with the will of a thousand melodies playing
a hollow flute inside the waterfall of your being,
hidden notes of yourself rise, you are a haunting violin grasping
my heart, a thin red line
you write
and now you know you only
write to yourself, everything becomes you and you empty
the sand from your sandals though you have never walked
even one step.

Here we meet.