there's something so drawing // stirring // hypnotic about these orbs that peer from beneath curling lashes. there are stories there, just waiting to be read like books with unfurled pages.
eyes are the windows to the soul, the candles of the body. these are His words, though i wish they were mine, too.
but then i started gazing at the closed books, marveling at the covers.
don't judge a book by its cover
but then again, do.
because the covers tell a lot, even if you aren't supposed to see.
closed eyes are the covers of the books still shut. someone has to open them. there has to be an invitation.
just hear me.
there's more to seeing than open eyes and mutual glances.
you know that, right?
those open eyes are even stares, level gazes begging and pleading for you to understand this language, to be a translator to their hidden stories and whispered memories.
but the closed eyes, the downcast gazes to the dirt and grime of the path...do you realize we ignore them, shuffling past because we don't want to intrude, to infiltrate their silence.
they must like it there.
but these, oh, these are the least of these. these are the ones to whom He turned and whispered
neither then do I condemn you.
so there's more to read than just the pages.
there are paintings atop these closed lids. the lashes are their bolted gates. and my soul craves to reach out to the downtrodden.
because He spoke those words to me, the weary one.
come unto Me
and I will give you rest.