Optic

Lids yawn to consciousness and

Awaken, blind to the

Mysteries of 6 am and the

Shapes and colors dance like the

Creatures of last night’s dreams until

Lazy lenses work toward order,

Tirelessly fighting to mold this view

Into one not quite so nonsensical,

Yet just as limitless.

The eyes are both

Windows and mirrors;

The hazel, chocolate, emerald universe is a film,

By which the mind may view the world around it,

Making judgements and choices and regrets and discoveries and

Uncovering the nature of the

Soul and its virtues.

With your vision you may wander the depths of others and

Watch as the world itself unfolds into

Beauty and destruction,

A world which only you may view and assess

In the way which only you will.

The eyes, however, are only predecessors

To the journey by which you exist

In this unforgiving and ever-evolving presence of a lifetime.

To truly hang in the gallery of time as

One who’s made her place,

Those windows which absorbed the light of the

Knowledge and beauty and destruction around

Must now reflect back.

These eyes, as always, are no ordinary mirrors,

For they distort the image in ways no one else will ever know,

Ways that only may be described through

Acts of the tongue, hand, or foot,

In response to the eyes,

And the mind,

And the heart.

This poem is about: 
Our world

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