He places his foot on the treadle.
The wheel slowly begins to creak,
then spin and spin like fate
in death’s dark hands.
He presses his tired eyes
to the stone; sparks fly.
It’s hard to see with myopic eyes.
Everything blurs with angelic auras.
If only he can sharpen a new lens
to reshape his stark visions,
then what he sees will not come to be—
If your eye offends thee,
pluck it out,
pluck it out!
(April 22, 2025)
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