The coefficient of impedance
to emotions in those blue eyes
is brutally equal to a sign of everything
of what are they made.
Formed by fracture and sharpness
by which they intersected human superficiality,
identify more and more with the finest
kind of ceramics, priceless.
If they are of any material,
then they are made of it.
The glaze inside them isn’t similar to any other color.
It’s neutral and cold,
strong and rigid, unusually different.
The shape of pupils, it’s taking up all the space
of rationality within the boundaries of the unimaginable.
Flint pieces, appearing in the corners of the eyes,
filled with layers of unbearable,
flint as pain, the burden,
but she uses it to build herself a weapon
and to extinguish the fire inside.
A complicated and deep symbol of hell in them,
painted on a blue canvas.
A sense of absurdity promptly given
and the devastating aspect of confusion
of one crucified soul,
painted on a ceramic surface.
It doesn’t fire, but it breaks into countless numbers
of segments, deep in paranoia.
The allegory of one look,
the antithesis of good and evil,
created by contradictions and rejections,
a scream captured in anaphora,
while the eyes bleed blue
as they break but remain strong.
They remain transparent, pervasive and infinite,
remains of galaxies and the appearance of the ocean.
They remain elusive, ideally unknown.