Poem written in 2005. Edited and revised today.
Eyes
Every night
he tries to paint my picture.
His nimble fingers dance
and swipe the canvas
with feline movements.
With a sigh of surrender,
he stops,
and his face gathers clouds and dusk.
“Your eyes are too sad,
and I have no color for them,” he says.
My painter with his sweat, dusk, and clouds.
Every night he brings a clean canvas.
Every night he leaves
with only a half drawn face,
a strange pair of eyes –
vacant,
never somber.
My painter is afraid
of making apparent
all that lies hidden in my eyes.
ABOUT
This is nice, very noor-ul-ain-ish with their flow and subtlety but the end I thought was kinda direct. Maybe it could’ve worked if the poem was longer, but here it comes too suddenly without a warning and it takes away from the subtlety of the whole concept of the eyes.