See the paint upon the paper,
scarlet blood running across
the parchment veins,
giving life to the dead,
dried skin of a blank sheet.
Add the opal ink,
its lapis sheen shining
bright eyes to stare with
a wet glare at bored faces,
frozen friezes faking interest.
Sketch the lips in charcoal,
black as shadows beneath beds,
so smoky sayings issue forth
words of suspicion like
eyes on the wings of butterflies.
This window reflects no portrait
of those searching for understanding,
those striving for enlightenment,
those viewing for enjoyment,
who pretend to see between the strokes.
Art is a blank canvas for anyone
seeing without limits,
but art is true for only the creator
where blood and opals and shadows
form no face, but worlds.