THE EYES BENEATH THE WAX

THE EYES BENEATH THE WAX

I painted a river that never ran,
with turquoise water and frozen sand,
then somewhere inside the melting wax,
I felt a hundred eyes look back.

They had no faces, they had no names,
they floated quietly beneath the flames,
some were blue and some were red,
some looked living, some looked dead.

I asked one eye, “What do you see?”
It softly whispered, “You see me,
but I have watched you all your life,
through every joy and every strife.”

The red wax opened like a wound,
but not one drop fell to the ground,
it curled itself around a stone,
as though it hated being alone.

Above it lay a frozen sea,
holding secrets meant for me,
and underneath each turquoise wave,
were all the memories I tried to save.

My father’s hands, my childhood door,
the shoes I left upon the floor,
the people gone, the words unsaid,
all slept beneath that riverbed.

I never planned to paint those eyes,
they rose like moons into the skies,
the wax decided where they’d be,
then left their meaning there for me.

Perhaps our paintings understand
the things we cannot say firsthand,
perhaps the colours know much more
than brushes ever knew before.

So if you stand and look awhile,
one eye may blink, another smile,
and you may feel, beneath the blue,
that something there is watching you.

Not something wicked, not unkind,
but something that you left behind,
still waiting in the melted art,
with open eyes and beating heart.