Scratched Spectacles

There is time in the eyes
Hazing what is seen
As an aspect of glass
Filters every place

Each reel of scene
Is a reflection on
Past misery and blemishes
And fogs the lens

Each scratch a virus
Where tendrils and webs
Are dregs and their threads
Reach for the iris

This infection’s intentions
Are to shroud in nostalgia
What haze is there if we
Only think of yesterday

It’s a bliss
But it lacks progress
Eyes back and pupil black
In love with before

Dialated in time
With gravity
Pulling us back
To next time

A dense web may be

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