So I might have an eye obsession;
“Curable by removing the object
that incurred the disorder,”
or so the intellectuals say.
I’d rather high board
off your lashes,
cannonball your waiting pupil
to receive me into unlit depths;
watching ripples race across your iris
cause waves to break upon glasses
at last blurring the vision,
of this probing, photoshopped world.
They’ll never take nor taste
a lick of your panoramic essence,
judging your depth through
their self-written laws of flaws
from a shallow shoreline.
I, would exchange
one handed backstrokes
of jubilant whirlpools,
for their toxic,
exotic cocktail of glances
they offer for acceptance.
Allow me, to filter
the salt of your tears,
flavor them with Kool-aid
or make of them
what you wish.
I’ll stand in the center
of your Stonehenge,
watching the mystery of the sun’s birth
impregnate this circumference with awe,
unfold and saturate the landscape of richest greens;
seeping through these posts and lintels uninvited,
Let us walk in unison
to greet its rays,
pick the laughing Marigolds on the way
as the Dandelions are tickled awake.
We kneel in prayer
and give thanks for mornings
such as these that arise
in your eyes;
for this ground is sacred,
and do not let another soul
tell you otherwise.
Let me stare deeper
into your black holes,
become your pupil
let us dangle
from your event horizon,
become immuned to impossibilities.
Think me to be crazy but please,
don’t turn away;
for I’ve been drawn, enticed,
refracted through your lenses,
striking your fovea asking,
“Can you see me now?!”
For here is my shelter
in the eye of the storm,
from the chaotically painted dark hues,
spasmodic whites that burst through.
I’ll remain right here
‘til the celestial silhouettes clear,
as I gaze at the sun’s daughters
through the canopy of your cornea.
The moon’s smile does seem a little brighter.