The visioner

A portrait hangs, yet does not rest—
A hundred eyes within its chest.
Each gaze a thread, each glance a seam,
Stitched from fragments of a dream.

They watch the light, they drink the shade,
They see the truths we try to evade.
No single sight, no fixed frontier—
A thousand visions gathered here.

You called it Visioner, and rightly so—
For it sees all we’ll never know.