We Could Build An Army

Beneath the brow of borrowed skies, a face is carved from hush and cries. Eyes wide as moons, they drink the dusk, while feathered thoughts in silence musk. Three birds emerge from bone and seam— not separate things, but parts that dream. One guards the ear, one holds the breast, one stretches forth with no request. An egg, round orb of breathless lore, is held like truth we can’t ignore. Not born, not dead, it waits inside— a pulse of hope we’ve yet to bide. The figure stares, as if to ask: Are you the keeper or the mask? Do you recall the wing, the cry, or just the shell you left behind? ____ Alyssa Deabenderfer 2024. Charcoal on paper. ~8.5"x11" ___ *This piece is enlarged on OWW for better view experience