Saturday, June 2, 2012
Thumbprints on my lens
Smudge and shift the truth,
Bending beams of light
Into something not quite real.
Not quite real,
For what was once pure and undefiled
Has now been twisted,
Tightened into jagged angles
And illuminating an image
In a way that reveals only half-truths.
Can’t sustain the searching
Of a soul seeking the satisfaction
Of sacraments and salvific solemnization.
A thin space in the world
Affording this searching soul a metamorphosis.
Sadly, it seems I’ll never shed my skin to fly,
Because I refuse to see past the
Thumbprints on my lens.