Someday This Will All Be Gone

Time tends to create an opaque membrane,
with more limited optical clarity,

behind the lenses of eyes

that automatically adjust for distant targets,
when someone, who is very fond of blue,
comes near.

It draws the taupe veneer of history
over the windows of the heart,
goading light from the front of the house—

What if I could shine from inside out?

—to create a more open concept,
wherein that figure might not be human
or square

with the projection induced by:
flush-colored vision,
hope for flowers,

goals for the future,
which are so very important; but time
sets so hard on the face

that when another layer is printed
the first does not dissolve,
like a stacked Neapolitan cake

or overlapping tree tops;
and though the veins are quite pale,
I still hold every leaf up to the sky,

searching for a hand with fingers.

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