the optometrist
asked me to read
the lines of random letters
in progressively
smaller fonts
until i fell
inside myself
looking at the random
scars and open wounds
in search of sense
she found my
myopic internal view
of the cavernous hell
that resides
within my mental landscape
is twenty-twenty
while my ability
to see outside
the coma of misery
shows cataracts
unable or unwilling
to grasp at the fleeting bits
of dander
when you
squeeze your eyes closed
staring at the sun