The Weave, As if key to a hidden world

A bearded man with contorted lopsided features,
As if just woken from a drunken stupor
A pointy-nosed sharp-featured woman, eyes closed, lips twirling into a smile,
As if lost in a dreamed moment of bliss
A bushy eyebrowed young boy turning away guilt-ridden,
As if afraid he's seen something he shouldn't have
A slant-eyed fox grinning and looking upon the boy,
As if with sly understanding
A big nosed onlooker with widely-spaced eyes sympathising,
As if he's almost upon a decision on whether to help or not

Beneath them all,
Alerted penguins of all builds- fattest to thinnest, all spaced out,
As if to cover the ground well

Digging further below, through the heavy crusty earth,
A pointy-nosed, pointy-jawed sharp-featured lady looking suspicious(perhaps her mother?)
As if she smells something foul
An emaciated single-toothed ball-faced 'thing' maliciously telling a secret,
As if it's the most enjoyable thing to do
An amused tiger giving full heed and listening with all intent,
As if it's just for fun with no real consequence for him
An angry fluffed up pointy-beaked bird reproaching them,
As if demanding quiet for the trail of birdlings following behind

Beneath a few more incomprehensible layers of landscape of silent turmoil,
A great number of owls bunching together like you've never seen before,
As if gathering all their wisdom to tackle the sense of urgency in the air
A funny-hatted jolly looking man posing with a smart-hatted stupid looking dog,
As if they didn't see anything
Right below them mirroring a striking contrast,
A stupid looking man with no hat posing with a smart looking dog with no hat but an intelligent eye,
As if he sees everything.
(Even me!)

Rushing further below through the tapestry of the confused unknown,
A bench of ministers aligned in such a worsening order of cleverly posed faces,
As if gradually getting aware of their own dumbness with the increasing feeling of helplessness.

Beneath it all occupying great spaces,
Generic empty designs with no meaning,
As if filling up the meaningfully empty space for no reason.



The atmosphere of this weave reminded of the one called My Name is Red, woven by Orhan Pamuk.
I wonder...
What story do these faces belong to?
Where do they come from?
What happens next?
Who are these characters frozen in these peculiarly striking moments in this weave?


I'll tell you what's more striking:
They immediately disappear into the dense wild texture the moment I shift my gaze,
As if there's only one angle to grasp their tale,
As if that particular angle was the only portal into their world, in that particular moment.
As if it was the only chance glimpse that I could afford, Or
As if it was the only glimpse that they could afford me to have?
I wonder...