The Struggle

I can focus on your face if I try, or on a cloud, or a tree. Instead my eyes would rather glaze with 
hazy filter to turn my gaze inward, to tick, to dream. I can hardly hear the words as they leave your lips, 
they make no mark on me. I must take a white chisel to my pupils, so that I may prise them wider. I 
want to see the world for its beauty and light. I will taste the air and dance in the dust. Yet, come morning 
a mist will form and my spirits will sink lower.
-WR


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