Remember staring at those Magic Eyes?
I can sure remember being blind – Didn’t even know the trick I couldn’t find; Nose getting closer to the chromatic-static, Rods and cones still in their flat-packs, Wanting to see first but always beaten back By another’s Sight, like a club in a blindside attack: An exclusive club, in fact, with an existing founder, Charging admission – With change – For twenty-twenty vision. No – Twenty?! Twenty-something already? Gosh, when I was your age I was much further ahead.
I know: Let’s practise losing focus like it’s a skill And kill our darlings in bedroom-philosophising, Without realising that these star-crossed-eyes Are losing sight of the bigger picture.
So. What’s my prize? Why, the tessellated chaos of unchartered life! The beauty of an unknown future, When madness in retrospect lies – Like Hate reconstituted and sutured again as Love. Correction: Love as Hate. Wait – Retrospect lies?
Sorry – Wrong reflection: Please don’t fall behind.
Something is blurring sightlines on the racetrack – An optical trick-trap of the wrong faces, A trip-back into Iron Maiden embraces, Ghosts haunting the memory of places – And what were we even chasing?
Paths overgrown with toxic Narcissi, And a Magic I ego at the finish line With a hocus-pocus stopwatch and a logbook of times.
Still can’t see it?
© Georgina Barley 2017