I stand at the sidelines of a passing few
Their heads tipped toward the floor in shame
Continual outcome when my eyes too touch you
A brief glance of perhaps, of mistaken dame
Timid souls that are racked with fear's scars
Not a leer, but an assuring glance unknown
Like a guard who looms outside cell bars
Perhaps this curious question may be your own
If I pass you and our eyes collide
Do not flinch and peer at your feet
I see the soul through windows that hide
The interior whole I perchance not to meet