The only true power of the evil eye is making one doubt their own value, abilities, choices, or sanity. Even the right to exist. Creating the enemy within. Remove the doubt, that power vanishes, and the soul restores its own.

To my existential surprise, they were just shiny shells in eternal need of a traded identity.

The one who sees the incredible process of beauty in eternal cycles of imperfection is the one who rides the light.

It’s never the eyes you should observe.
It’s the mouth.

Eyes are twin lakes
Filled with your dreams of the Other.
We reflect in them
Shivering daffodils in a storm
Yearning for recognition
Signs we are not alone.

The liar knows this.
He creates the perfect mirror
The Sacred Opposite.
Your beloved
Out of callous, ingenious play.
This toy of insolence
Mocking your solemn heart.

Eyes are not where you search
For the truth.
The retina is an optical instrument
Light is its substance
Its master
Measure for measure.

The Light Bearer
Had the most beautiful eyes in Creation.

But the lips
A muted hiss
The throne of cruelty
Gates leading to infinite passages
Labyrinths.
Daggers in the icy night.
Faint stench of dying blood.
This tightness of skin
Around the mouth
The miser’s jaw.
Pride.

It cannot be concealed.

There is not enough
Organic material
No soul substance
To extend to another.
No movement beyond
One’s own magnified self.

As God created Word
The perversion of it
Was uttered in defiance.
And it left a scar
That only the scarred
Are able to see.

Once you do
The reflection
Glimpsed
In those eyes
Fades to black.

But the wings
They are still attached
Motionless.
Reminding the Fallen
Of what is lost.

Understand
And cherish this
Thought
The longing you saw
In the eyes
Of the Deceiver
Is real.

© Milana Vujkov, The Deceiver, Oct 2015

The universe is magical. It offers us what we desire, and makes no excuses for our folly.

How lucky we are to love like that, to be loved like that.

Men who guard the infinite softness of women that run into the wild solved the riddle of the world.

Their arms, branches, their feet roots, to a beating heart that knows no bounds, and no other way, but into the unknown.

And by being the tree, they become the fruit.

They are the home the wild yearns for.

But no one knows it until they do.

Some never will.

The fragility of the untamed flame eludes them.

And the wild in their own heart is left to wander, feral, in the dark.

—
© Milana Vujkov, Woodlands, June 2019