They are falling stars that smoulder white
Drawing hot or cold with lustful bite,
Drowned treasure ships of old
Flirting with seekers of swollen bold.

Dante said the eyes are windows to one�s soul,
Incisive in tact, for my lady�s eyes are so,
He was as precise as surgeons' hands,
For out of bed, her eyes are shifting sands.

For slice them to their barest essentials and you�ll see
How false my lady and how hollow she is.

I hate this poem. It is a terrible legacy from the days where I had to force myself to write sonnets as a writng exercise. This is the eight time I dug it up to have a go at it, which tells you how much I dislike it.

It was from an image that I saw in one of the medical texts about the parts of the eye. The eye as an image is always of interest to me, and I played around with the whole idea that if you dissect the eye you can see someone's true character.

I know Sweet Teeth loved this poem, the last couple of drafts before anyway. It's over a year old and this version has gone through many changes already. However, when I do read this poem, I feel sentimental because I wrote this on one of the gang's nights out in the cafe. Minor changes. 30.04.02