I Saw The Painter's Eyes

I saw the painter's eyes: Peering out the small frame In still life; the sighs were inaudible Only I have a few of the words he left Scattered around, some poems from a diary; My book, of his days A book of life abandoned. His world, the rocky shoreline Of dangerous currents, deep chasms Bordered by his ocean of solitary awareness Waking endlessly; praying for sleep His weary life sleep walks through his mind Thin peace mixed into grueling days The eye of an artist; the soul of a dreamer. In him, you would have been blinded by beauty His brilliance never to be possessed by anyone; He springs the locks and goes Looking for the lost life, to paint it into existence again If he could find it once; His diamond-cache of grief shining at times, inside his black eyes.. And had he ever looked at you, it would wound you; Wound you, in your great simpleness- But he could never hurt anyone; He keeps his watch over shifting waves and mind storms, Sheathes them tightly behind his canvas But he turns to stone each night inside the mirror And another ghost haunts the pier.