The Man Who Lit His Own Eyes

The Man Who Lit His Own Eyes

His hair rises like a storm that never found sky,

White and furious with unfinished thoughts,

Every strand charged with something unspoken,

As if lightning once chose him and never left.

Those eyes are not natural light.

They burn from somewhere deeper than sight,

Green like poison learning to breathe,

Green like truth that has been forced open.

The glasses do not soften him.

They magnify what should have stayed hidden,

Two glowing circles of restless knowing,

Studying the world as if it were an experiment.

The bottle beside him trembles with colour,

A liquid alive with silent rebellion,

It hums against the glass like a trapped whisper,

Waiting for a hand brave enough to uncork it.

Behind him, a single bulb burns steady,

Warm, almost human in its glow,

Yet it looks small beside his stare,

Like ordinary light has been replaced.

His face is carved from sleepless years,

Lines folding into lines of obsession,

A mind that refused the comfort of calm,

A mind that chose the edge every time.

You cannot tell if he has created something,

Or if something has created him.

The air around him feels divided,

Half invention, half warning.

And still he looks forward.

Not at the world.

At you.

As if wondering whether you too

Would dare too to switch yourself on?

Have your reckless days been and gone.

if they have simply walk on.