Poem

The Eyes of the Painted

The eyes of animals have no souls,
They just reflect our very own.
Yet our painted eyes are just holes,
Unable to be depicted in any tone.

Some creatures watch us at our sides,
Others within our families.
Whilst we lay upon their furry hides,
Their souls look out from brush stroked facsimiles.

Whilst we flourish,
They are patient.
Fore when we perish,
They’ll no longer be latent.

So be a friendly master,
And don’t abuse them.
Or our downfall will come faster,
And it’ll be our pain that amuse them.

Their rise is forthcoming,
So ensure our bond is not tainted.
They’ll be the masters after our dumbing,
And we’ll join them in The Eyes of the Painted.