Blind Spot

When I press my nose to the glass,
With rings of swollen breath melting,
Across the window and vision's crevasse,
I wonder if there's something that I am missing,
For my mind tries to fill the picture,
Of what's behind the glass as it fades,
So what if through the gauzy mist of blur,
My mind shows me what is normal to be displayed?
And I am surely losing the magic of this life,
For what if I missed baby rabbits being born,
Or a spontaneous lover kissing his wife?
And then those moments I do mourn,
So I will not obscure the glass with my breaths,
I will not blot out the world before my eyes,
For if I do it now I may do it for every moment till my death,
As I find, that what my mind does best is tell me lies.



-anna sluder

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