empty eyes
gaze through soul windows
painted shut
by moments wasted
walking barefoot on grass
that never got greener;
the “now” of them
becomes days
and months
and years
and never--

tired eyes
search a kaleidoscope prison
praying for any sun
to dry brittle tears
and shine on parchment cheeks;
“soon” their prayer, “soon”
begging light (and salvation),
lest they become
stained glass images
of themselves

and The Watchers watch
with youthful hindsight
and a wrist turn
of the peephole
as faces become one
in a mirror
that will not lie;

'look at me,
look at you'
whispers the mirror
to The Watchers--

'we were once
so much more
than dust'
.

.

.

Art:"The Eyes Have It"--Doreen Hardiman