My Eyes Have Left Me November 09, 2018

Another new . . . er one. As I grow older I begin to see changes in myself. Not changes for the most part that I welcome, but those inevitable changes in my physical and mental being that I must accept. It's hard to give in. Poetry helps to make the transitions a little less painful, though.

My Eyes Have Left Me

My eyes have left me without a single word,

no remorse or goodbyes. If they had bags to pack,

they did so the night before when I slept away inside

another dream that I won’t remember when I awake.

You’d think after all these years and all those tears 

we’ve shed together that they might at least leave a note 

beneath the gnarled cushions of the couch. But no.

I investigate the mirror see only two black holes.

My eyes lived there once, but no disgrace.

Now running down my swollen face 

blood flows in gentle slivers burning red.

All appears dead to me. That line of trees

along Trout Avenue, the ones that block

The parking lot from my window’s view,

All that’s out there . . . forever dead to me.

All that exists in here . . . a dreadful hollow 

to me, to what is left of me. Below the window

I hear the deaf cry of my blackest crow’s song.
Woodie o6-28-18