The Boy with the Empty Eyes

He stared in solitude.
With silent ecstasy, drawing me away from my forests,
into a clean wide shore.
It felt like I'd never been to the sea before.
Caressing each thorn, his flower became
the picturesque translation of my confidence,
deeply buried into my mouth.

So I threw down shields and clothing,
loudly sounding when hitting the ground.
He came closer and opened empty eyes
for me to swim in.
I couldn't help feeling both small and entirely accepted
in such sea of deep blankness and meaning,
as we both moaned in delightful communication.
Layed on the water, chest-high,
softened thorns perforating my untouched skin,
I could finally have a rest from myself.
New life and new comfort blossoming, it could be said.

And it was known from the start, up to the raising of this tribute,
the certainty of this phenomenon,
which will not be erased, regardless of its duration.
I may return to my pit in the woods,
but with at least a single thornless, colorful flower,
caressing the withered trees in me.