Tuesday, 5 November 2019

With Open Eyes
I have my eyes open now
and I can see the sky
framed
by debris,
by rocks,
by wire,
by dereliction.
Framed
by sharpness and
impenetrable barriers.
I want to see it clear,
like I remember
when my eyes were closed
clear and unblemished
creamy white
and pink and blue.
I want want to see it
framed by trees,
I want to see
the rocks become
flowers
again.
I want to go back to
where the birds are singing
breaking up the sky with flight.
Does it still exist, this place?
I don’t think so.
Will it ever exist again?
I must believe so.

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