overwhelmed by the onslaught of imaging,
yet wanting for the trickle of nuanced as feelings.
breath is a prayer for me then.
sensory has so much visual baggage to endure.
I am now tone-deaf by sight.
it is so worn to be looking out,
as if cynicism is a visual account.
I almost feel threadbare without imaging.
sight now only gives me coins in the pocket,
shoes adequately tied,
usage of a rear view mirror,
the voice of order,
inwardly commenting on the passings
of views, that die by commentary's made.
sight has become the cursory
of the crossing of the eyes
and the dotting of the tease.
sight has become
the waterfall in the wintertime frozen.
it stares back blandly
at my expectation in muted quandary.
wanting a mind-screen of holographic composition,
where vibratory is sight-filled
and hum is touch shared.
where feel has sensory range
beyond what audience can provide.
where intimacy is of a grander scale
than self justifiably identified.
where the river of aliveness
is passing through me
and not me stand in the river,
waiting for a selfie to be realized.
my senses so honor my wants,
but somehow not dignify my needs.
I need my crossing guard
to admit to its hypocrisy.
my sense of order limited to table settings.
my sight not dedicated to screen saver.
my sight somehow eats
with the fork in the road,
while I then have impressions for meals.
I want sight for reveal,
not so much for identify.
I want to believe in the service of sight
and not so much of the seduction.
I feel like sight is a confinement
to a conveyer belt of boredom.
I want to be the artist of sight
and not the audience resulting from it.
I want to blink
and for mind-worthiness to reappear.
I have needs for the brush of sight
to create deliverances and causals,
that revive my sense of being.
save for me some sight of embodiment.
some overwhelm of inwardness in response.
some journey for my eyes,
where look is not a drive-by
and see is emersion
in the ever of immersion expressing . . .
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