ALL THE SCARS
ON MY EYES
It's no wonder I can no longer see; this is a
holy blindness. My eyes, like my soul, have
been singed and scarred - an everlasting fire
that will not quit. I walk unscathed amidst others,
yes, but they cannot see these wound I test. My
eyes are grown over with a thickness. Logic skims
the surface and I have to peel it off; a continual and
hazardous process which is so needed for all I do.
I cannot walk with other men; their ways are wrong
their words unhinged. Anything they claim to see, I do
not see - this other world I dwell in has its own claims.
Fog and reality, sometimes clashing, sometimes same.
Draw me the metal from the valued well. Skip the ore,
and go right to the core : hand me the purest form of
anything you find. My hands are heavy, but they
can hold my mind. I see the world now, yes,
though only from a distance.