Mosaic Eyes

Have you met the man with mosaic eyes?

Seeing the world in colors unheard.

Painting scenes no one else can surmise.

Electric gold on the wings of a bird.

"Surreal", he whispered when he first saw you.

The limits of beauty always ranging.

You stood in place as his work of art grew.

Dazed. The sky above started changing.

Cobalt rains melded into salmon springs.

Honeyed winds swirled red with suggestion.

The sun swallowed the moon in amber rings.

Shocked, you turned to the painter in question.

"Have you looked at your eyes? They’re mosaic.

A painting, stuck in a world so prosaic."

To you, this might have felt like a dream.

What happened first… then last,

and every tantalizing moment between.

Do you remember what you were asked?

Mosaic eyes were tinted a deep scarlet red.

"Yes", you giggled, petals tangling in your hair.

Look down and realize; those roses were dead.

‘Once Upon a Time’ had covered up ‘Beware’.

The fiery sun slowly leeched lemons from the tree.

A hundred ivory pillars held up a collapsing world.

You suddenly choked, "What’s happening to me?"

Brushstrokes from your fingers unfurled.

"Say you’ll be mine, forever. My love and my muse?"

One word tumbled from your lips, in sorrowful blues.

Charcoal breezes ripped cyan from the sky.

Flint chased juniper bait into a crashing swell.

Grayscale ignited meadows in a shrieking battle cry.

Bright hues were spun like a dying carousel.

You finally broke into a run, your hemline snagging.

Inky shadows took up the chase, nipping at your feet

They belonged to him; heavy footsteps lagging.

Marigold birds shielded your face with a heavy heartbeat.

Taffy lies had melted your mind, a mess of fury and rage.

Chased into the city, you carried shards of a broken heart.

They corralled you through an open door, into a waiting cage.

A place to restart, where black was the only color in the art.

Darling girl, your eyes captured the last fleeing hues.

Confined to your frame, an entire world hidden in a muse.

Glimpses through the window showed a monotone minute,

ticking by without any hint of change or vitality.

Crows landed on cedar carcasses, no sense of a limit.

The crowds that gathered were abstract. An abnormality.

Twelve years passed as the centerpiece in his showroom.

You struggled to understand where the honeyed winds went. 

Steely-eye guards, cloaked in iron, forbade photos of your tomb.

Other pieces joined the cramped exhibit, hardened to cement.

Twelve womanly statues surrounded you, their voices unsung.

Terror frozen in their faces were confused as artistic theme.

The painter visited daily, explanations like poison candy on your tongue.

He said they were willing participants, but one was suspended in a scream.

Your innocence had been stripped away, and you’d all been left bare.

The painter’s devotees took witness to every woman caught in his snare.

The story changed one dreary charcoal night.

An old man hobbled through the door.

Shock filled his expression. Then, fright.

With a shout, he collapsed onto ashen floor.

He kissed stone hands; cradled a pebbled cheek.

Positioned a bouquet of ivory flowers at her feet.

The heartsick husband wept; he couldn’t speak.

Every day of the week, the statue’s misery would repeat.

Turquoise curiosity feigned to peek through your eyes.

Lavender unfurled in your chest, shoving at the frame.

More worried loved ones arrived before the next sunrise.

These statues were mothers. Girls. Not bodies to claim.

Around their heads, an alabaster omen of wings. A white dove.

After all this time – you finally understood the meaning of love.

It had been twelve lonely years since your lips parted in speech.

When they did, a stream of bubblegum sentences were spread.

Playful caresses had made you selfish, your mind out of reach.

Now, as a woman, you’d choose a different path instead.

"Each hour is marked by midnight ravens and midday snow.

It’s my fault your beaches are barren and your loved ones alone.

Please, if you can, forgive me for my errors all those years ago."

You didn’t wait for a response from the souls trapped in stone.

You fled deep into your frame, searching for some sort of escape.

Leaping from Toro’s Colorless Lake to A Jaded Summer’s Day.

You sprinted across smudges of the universe, a desolate landscape.

With a shaky hand, you restored the cerulean sky from a pallet of gray.

"Stop." The painter dipped dry brushes in your vault of periwinkle stars.

"You’re safe in there. Keep quiet, my love. These colors are only ours."

When he left, you gathered all the splintered shards you’d collected.

Repurposed them as brushes, beating remnants of your heart.

You’d almost forgotten how badly they’d been neglected.

Almost forget – that’s it’s never too late to restart.

Drawing pointed teeth; crimson flooded the jaws of a shark.

You gave it free range, thrashing among charcoal designs.

Shattering frames in its restless mission to light up the dark,

the painter was panicked. He climbed into his own confines.

Bubbles pinpointed the place he plunged into an arctic seascape.

Your sketches had overflowed and stained the floor like rosé.

You followed him below the surface, pencil lines taking shape.

An artist, sculpting her revenge into a giant brick of clay.

He had stolen a careless girl, not expecting a warrior to bloom.

Armed with a broken heart, you woke up and graffitied the room.

Marigold birds escaped through the window, whistling a lullaby.

Below the surface, you whispered a question to a drowning man.

Stone statues cracked, moving their limbs as if they could fly.

A mangled ‘no’ triggered a tidal wave, back to where it all began.

Lavender glaciers melted into underground merlot cellars.

Bermuda fins cut through bushels of buttermilk berries.

Three moons sprouted from the seeds of drunk storytellers.

Tired eyes closed, popping open as bright as cherries.

An old world had been unleashed, leading to a hasty resolution.

A sobbing woman wrapped her arms around a sturdy frame.

A statue reunited. A painting leading a revolution.

For everything he had given her, she would give the same.

One pair of mosaic eyes emerged from icy waters: the other stayed below.

A cyclone of midnight misery dripping into his cage, melting with the snow.

Wet feet slapped the floor. A grandfather clock reset with a tick.

A veil was draped over the bone-white framing. Then, steel bars.  

Gallery goers were convinced it was some sort of strange trick.

Statues walked outside, embracing under an ocean of untouched stars.

You boarded a train and weaved down an overgrown road;

trekked up a forgotten driveway and entered a hobble of a home.

Stepping inside, what was left of your heart overflowed.

Memories were stolen; of a family you had called your own.

In a small frame, on a squeaky shelf, there was an etching of you.

Next to it, a cracked family portrait, filled with rambunctious kin.

Every tile in your family’s eyes were a matching shade of indigo blue.

You heard their voices through layers of paint, lips stretched into a grin.

Their shrieks filled the air, heavy hands at your back. They pulled you inside.

"Shhh. Our brave girl; do not cry. You were terrified, casting your fears aside."

"Yes", you conceded. Honeyed winds trapped the frown in your confession.

Frozen in a monotone minute, your restraint had burst into flame. Then, blame.

The painter’s eyes were stark, fading morally gray, when you asked your question.

“For the price of your life, one simple answer - did you ever bother to learn my name?”

The painter was surrounded by sheets of polished ice, casting his reflection clearly.

His answer caused an avalanche of ache, a fractured tile in his mosaic perception. 

Broken people wielded love with chains. Their retribution cost them dearly.

Years later, you climbed the stairs of the gallery again and met a cold reception.

Hanging next to his painting, a monochromatic landscape seeped sorrow.

A flash of movement, of squinting eyes, summoned gallery goers by the dozens.

Another world had been leeched of color, of never-ending tomorrows.

You dove into its frame, chased by Cobalt and Sky. Two long-lost cousins.

These memories will fade, so remember –

Don’t give away more of yourself than you can afford.

You’re beautiful as you are. A muse. A painting. An entire art form, restored.