Reading Eyes Blur

by davidchrzanowskipoetry

Poem number 6.

Reading through blurs –
my eyes don’t work.

Ankles shattered from
running uneven surfaces.

And the witness…

If a witness witnesses
no wrong doings,
what are they witnessing?

If a person enters that part
of murder city at night,
are they a moth to a flame?

I touch a flame with
bare fingers,
I’m no moth,
just stupid.

It turns out my eyes are fine,
the writing is the issue,

I put down the paper.

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