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Aye, Aye, Captain, It's Creative Writing on Eyes!
--- Mood Writing on Eyes ---
Mood writing is evocative of the great classical writers, the masters of yesteryear. In The Mood Book's pages we absorb their craft via creative prose examples. As the old adage says, the eyes are the windows to the soul. So too do the windows of a house represent the eyes and thus evoke deep emotions. From sunken in grief to surging with excitement, our sense of sight is a two-way street. So let's visit eyes that glower and eyes as the springtime flowers. Say yes to mood writing with expressive eyes!
Written by Angela Abraham in 2024
Say you'll see me in my dark, whence emotions can't see where to park.
--- Creative Mood Writing on Eyes ---
Calcified Care in Eyes of Cruelest Stare
His watching eyes, a sallow and sunken green, observed. They moved not with the buoyancy of childhood, nor with light hearted mirth, yet cooly. How heavy they were! How slow! As mossy boulders they ground within their sockets. Grim. So very grim. I begged them to glance away, yet they would not. This unrelenting gaze, in which I could discern no blink, quite stole the opaqueness of my skin. What had been my natural covering was rendered uncomfortably clear, as if it were a fragile pane stretched thin by aeon's hand.
Example One:
Example Two:
Eyes of seawall concrete glared, they glared as a cataract-sun. ‘Twas as if old man winter shivered within, no campfire lit, hiding, hiding, in a dank Arthur’s cave. With an upward tilt of his jaw, a full featured scowl, I saw yet more. He had ensconced himself within those walls of stone and ‘twas but his ghoul who ventured out. For shame! He was a charlatan, the richest of beggar men and quite believing himself a renegade king.
His sea-foam eyes fogged in grief as he reclined upon the couch, a grief that spanned callous years, per-chance a decade or three. The dirty mullioned windows stole his attention in full, its beams rotting at their leisure, its panes pollution smeared. I imagined them to whisper, the man and that imposing window, to hold the most sympathetic of communions. Then all at once, ever so fast, he reaffirmed my gaze and held it strong, as if it were my very hands he clasped. His eyes glossed as a glacier in summer heat. I prayed, how I prayed, he’d welcome these sparks and fan these flames. For if his inner hearth could roar once more, he’d be restored and lament no more.
Example Three:
Eyes with Soul-Sunshine Heart-Hug and Heal
Ideas, as earth hugged seeds, were ensconced in those brown eyes. She knew it was winter. She knew to content their embryos with a dreaming slumber, restless though they were. For any patient observer, for any heart who cared to see, this was an obviousness beyond dispute. Any spring, any warm and rising sun, would bring the most explosive transformation. My lungs filled to maximum. My pulse sang in accelerated beats. With a soft smile she broke our gaze and, with a skip, did part. I was lost and found. That beginning can’t be our end. Surely destiny and fate are weaving a story of weighty worth.
Example Four:
Example Five:
Her eyes were both the sunlit foliage and the shade of their own shadows. Night and day, they were the same, as if for her the very stars gathered near, such was her mirthful gravity. Light could abandon her no more than a flame can deny its heat. As time kept its metronome march, her laughter lines did spread. The once blank notebook of childhood became the sweetest vignette. Age had written its lines from crease to furthest edge. When youth is succeeded by wisdom, it is a thing to cheer. And so, though skin did fold around her eyes through her maturing years, she held a beauty, a soulful ever-spring.
Example Six:
On approach, the sunny beams enveloped an unvarnished door, one born in evergreen forests yonder. My hand raised, fingers tight-tucked, breath catching in my chest, I rapped and rapped again. My heart raced. My brain fizzed. Then, it opened to reveal her sweet sesame eyes; in those orbs I once lived and died. More yet in time, with love, I pray to be reborn. For they are my kindling and crucible; into them this lost phoenix submits. Come flame. Come ash. With a willing heart, I am home to stay.
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