His eyes

Inner strength of a life, is that which makes all have life.

His eyes caught me, weak, pale and distant. Yet within the wrenching of his solar plexus was pressure, but also depth,

Fore the depth of his will power remains, from outer chaos to internal peace,

As spirit is far greater than wasted skin, and the eternal always outlasts the frail body,

His eyes are flowers, Chrysanthemums, late in opening and always startling in presence...

It never ends this presence, the three colours of the petals, dazzling white, yellow and orange, flames and fires of the imagination.

He awakens...arising to the sky and beyond, like the sun, but greater, like the moon though always full, like a tidal wave without harm and like emotion without sadness,

His eyes begin the rainbow and the end too begins with freshness, and vibrance of colour. This freshness, this taste, so sumptuous in the mouth. This honey and this dew of nectar, though flavoursome, is beyond what we can taste, see, hear and feel. Far beyond the senses, in the very depths of the soul.