By Zeean Firmeza
His cerulean eyes, where shall I start?
The waves rush over, he weaves through aimlessly.
Carrying the sand beds in and away—a lover of time.
His voice sings of a gentle breeze on a summertime,
My, does he realize how none can compare his presence?
He is the morning dew on a serene morning time,
Energizing the darkness within the gaps of broken hearts.
He says, “My eyes are gray,”
Does he not realize that his eyes remind one that all shall be okay?
If the grayish, cerulean deep waters of the sea reveal real beauty,
Then his eyes surely are of the ocean:
Deep, provoking, and serene.
—Perhaps he needs to see the beauty from his deep within.
Sources:
Cover image from National Geographic
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