Fingertipped into the paper

as eyes emerge discretely

reflection in its feeling

Dotted fear against the canvas

The hint of laughter caught

wet edge of a lower lid

is it alive or did it rot?

Can you tell what it has seen

by a heavy handed shading?

Deep well surrounds the corners

Detail tremors the lash line

A soft fracture of light

tipped inside the vision

like something startled it awake

Who is watching who?

The artist or the art?

A memory left open

A spark of sound within its sight

Some sketches feel

unfinished

Come closer, take a look

The absence is

calculated

Space left for gasping breath

for the viewer’s view inside the pulse

to create its final gaze

as its hung upon the wall

I wonder then

when the lights go out

and the house falls into quiet bones

will the eyes remain wide open

in its place within the hall?

Is there detail enough

for the lids to grow so heavy?

Will the charcoal pupil soften

lowering its heavy lashes

like curtains drawn against the dark?

Does it dream, forgotten

of the hand that traced it into being?

Or does it stay awake all night

observing someone elses seeing

waiting for the morning

frozen and unblinking?

Written by https://www.threads.com/@morana_in_chaos

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