Bold lines radiate from your inner irises like circular train tracks; each bar represents a part of you, a design of your life trekked over by an ignorant god.
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Thick strips of iron crossing your eyes are reminders of the countless days you spent striving for something better. I can see it in the way you dress, too. The muffin top aspect of your Gatsby hat wrinkles a gentle age, habitually tilted with the usual comfort and simultaneous dissatisfaction with your life, of working the hoot owl shift. The protruding brim fashions a tear, a gaping opening of your haunting past. Your innocent white tee shirt remains untouched by loving hands; at night, your work stained fingers rip it off, a thin protective shield displaced from a man who never wanted to lose the smile from his childhood. Smooth stubble outlines the inferior border of your face, highlighting your pale upper lip that never had the opportunity to kiss a beautiful smile, because a dead father meant learning to support a family on your own.
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I don’t understand how you have glarey white spots of faith still embroidered in the intricate stitching of your dark pupils, after all your days of working as a coal miner; how did you clean up your pained memories so well?
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Black, white, and gray hues of facial stillness indicate that your struggle is not over yet. The intensity of your eyes announces that you are still looking for beautiful colors to shine on your life. And your lower lips are parted just enough to hint that you have something to say. Stiff, sturdy, and too straight; they just won’t bend your emotions into words. But it’s okay; light gray hairs on your sideburns delicately suggest that you are not wearing away, but that you are becoming a strong man with passionate intentions. And those glares in your eyes, sometimes I pretend that they are staring at me and trying to jump into my own; sometimes I pretend that at the end of the day, you wish it was me rushing to pull the shirt, against gravity, over your gentle face. I pretend that I am a seamstress and that I can patch up the wear&tear of your hat. I imagine brushing my cheek against yours, feeling the stubble of a man who grew up too soon; I wish to tenderly kiss your lips and feel your strong arms caressing my body while your eyes pierce into me thoughts of never wanting to let me go; I would whisper quiet replies into your ears, only audible to you.
Your eyes are circular train tracks, and I am ready for an unforgettable journey on wooden slates tied to passionate engine screams, the way a banner pierces and tails through moonlight skies.
Gold trophy winner
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