What if I gorge my eyes out, you know, a bit of Oedipus with
the point of my pen? Will it hurt any more than what transpires inside, the guilt
I feel, if not over my mother or father, then over some other innocent I think
too much about in that way. They say the nerves of the retina are the most
sensitive to pain.
And what about the blood, pour out from my ruptured eyeball,
the ball itself dangling before me like a marble on a string?
Maybe I should just seek the solace of sleep, but also to
dream, and then wake again unrequited.
Do we dare to those things we think we deserve, punish
ourselves for our ill thoughts, when we have just to get joy from their
reality?
Do I do as Oedipus did, carrying my stiff cane before me,
blind to the consequences, when I have yet to act on my ill thoughts?
Dare I blind myself to keep from seeing what I see in my
head, my own life dangling before me?
No comments:
Post a Comment