The jaw is a sculpture of quiet intent,
Bathed in the rust of a sun that never sets.
Below, the mouth guards a vault of secrets,
A soft, crimson curve where words go to rest.

But above—where the gaze should anchor the world—
The geometry of the human fails.
The skin is a map that has been torn in half,
Revealing a threshold where logic pales.

It is not a wound, though it bleeds this light,
It is an opening, a frame, a glitch in the clay.
A door that leads to the sky of the mind,
Where the static of being washes the senses away.

Do not look for the eyes; they have turned inward,
To watch the red lightning of thoughts yet born.
I am the house, the tenant, and the door,
The fabric of reality, beautifully torn.

We are more than the breath we borrow from air,
We are portals dressed in the illusion of face.
Waiting for someone to step through the frame,
And find the infinite in this narrow space.

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