Sight Lines

The lens is old, but precise,
well honed in war for all its rust,
it sees more
than you imagine. Even
at a distance, out of sight,
it sees every secret,
every flaw and vulnerability.
Yes, the weapon is there,
Locked. Loaded.
Able to kill with a single volley
of deadly cruelty.

The lens is old but precise,
well honed in love, despite its rust.
It sees more
than you imagine, Near or far
it sees every secret beauty,
the ones hidden behind the masks of fear,
a vulnerable perfection rarely seen
through the distance you wear for protection.
There is no weapon here,
only the truth that what we see
depends entirely on the lens we use.

About this poem.

This poem is probably too plain to be good poetry. But I wrote it anyway.

Tom