If eyes are the window to the soul
Then why . . .
Do I feel, when I highlight
With black maskera
That I'm drawing attention away from my Inner Self
That when I conceal the tired shadows under my eyes
I'm erasing a bit of what it means to be human
And freezing into another glossy picture of a face
If eyes could communicate . . .
No, but I've seen the message.
The translation, wordless and stealthy, unfurls,
Can slip in unnoticed by so many girls.
They tell us to talk with our eyes and our bodies
A hundred times over on big silver screens
A million times over on ads on TV
The unvaried vocabulary
The vernacular of voluptuousness