Perspectives

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I cannot know the world through your eyes
however much I try.
The sights held dear you will seldom know
belong to me alone.

Form redefined by Polykleitos,
revelled contrapposto,
is but rigid statues to your gaze,
a stone bleached of its stains.

You savour the soaring to the leap
that helms Olympic feats,
though the grit with twisting over beams
is somewhat lost to me.

Swapping bladework between sharp épees
is peace in swift parries.
Yet your tensions come with striking blows,
leave bristling nerves to show.

Bright trumpet cries and low trombone blues
brim within your blood.
But in silence I keep deep within,
I prefer violin.

I can’t ever know the wayward dreams
wandering your mind’s seams,
but I will admire all the same
the layers to your name.