Every day, I wonder why my vision
reaches out these ordinary eyes:
stretches from this specific soul, and not
the next one to be fastened onto flesh.
This is why I laugh at your disguise
so carelessly, and why, from here behind
my own, I clamber forward with my mind
as though to leap into your irises
and sound the sea of what you keep inside.
Most often, though, the eye exists around
impassible terrain, a silent dot
of void; belies the beauty of the thresh
of incohesive sense beneath your ground.
I am sick of being like a virus
of myself, intent upon my spread,
while everyone decays in needless fission,
dazed by arbitrary distances
and perishing in solitary dread.