I open my eyes and look to the dark,
thick coils swirl across the vague lit
ceiling of my changing eyesight and
I imagine all sorts of things are there
floating just outside my vision’s night.
I wonder at the others who lie awake
and test their eyes against the lies of
day, and see through their minds a
host of many hued delights they love,
playing there just by their bedsides.
My heart is churning thinking of all
the life I love, my need to see my
beloved and my children and theirs;
and the pillow damp with tears; hid
from those kind seeing eyes longing
to help, find a cure, seek a way to
teach, braille, train me to see what
I can, for a long as I might but still
the drop falls and the night palls
and fear grows with the coming light.
Mine staved off for now but for others
the grey mist falls. And a white stick
calls so that they might walk amongst
the living and feel the grief of the toil
that boils in rage at the injustice of it all.