That face, those distant words I've never seen;
Who are you? A ghost whose presence
Does little else but to confound
That which I try to compel. Our mutual friend cries.
Am I meant to hate you? Whom, I don't really know
Yet despite all I see is through those pretty rose eyes.
The green in mine deadens it to hateful black.
While still these images lie with you, not me
Am I not missed, am I not caring, wishing to
Be cared for, or some sign still of it at all?
No, all those eyes are for, is you. You wear purple.
Regally, I must say, and from your throne of praise
All I can do is hope that mine own can rise,
As the green upon my shoulders, can prove to be
Something better than the rest.