Red Eye

Dont look too close.
The whites of my eyes are bloodshot as hell,
like the end of a four day drunk.

But…. life the eyelids and underneath
they are white as redemption.
I am, it appears, alergic to air.
The world around me draws blood.

It burns a bit. Meds and drops only do so much.
But every once and a while I lift my eyelids
and look at the perfect whiteness, reassured
that somewhere, even hidden perhaps,
I am still pure.

About this poem.

Oddly autobiographical. Spawned by stumbling into an old photograph I had forgotten about. It was taken at an outdoor museum in St Louis. The whole statue is below.

Now and then, it is good to remember the pure things in our lives, whatever they may be. In my own life? You know who you are.

Tom