The eye sight
If seeing is only a matter of sight,
then I no longer wish to see.
If vision is only what hands can touch and point to,
I want no part of it.
How subtle and dangerous you have been.
You guided my first steps,
taught me to read, to compare, to navigate—
yet you kept me blind to myself.
The mirror reflects my skin,
but it never shows the soul within.
For years, I lived a copy-and-paste existence,
making choices based on surface, edge, and form,
feeding the vessel, but starving the heart.
You differentiate the world,
yet you cannot read what is inside me.
You watch the hair fade and gray,
trapped in the ticking of time,
forgetting that the true self is timeless.
The eye sees, but it remains blind.
It feeds, it mourns, it fades—
while the true sight waits within.