The fog of my eye

The fog of my eye hides truth.
I peer through the haze,
I think I see a corner booth,
It’s full of friends from past days.

I rub my eyes and the image changes.
The lighting of this booth is dim,
Ill-lit to hide the scars on our faces.
As one mutters, “who invited him?”

My ears deceive me in this moment.
Am I wanted, or not? I cannot tell.
My feet are stuck in the cold cement
The sudden shock rises in a drastic shrill.

The exit serves as a sweeping draft
That cools me from the rising heat.
Is it just me that feels the heat blast?
Or are we all just faking, stuck in defeat?


I want to know what you, the reader, thinks. Consider leaving a comment and I will reply!

12 thoughts on “The fog of my eye

    1. Thank you, I want to write things that many can relate to if they put some time into trying to understand. Poetry is not about throwing “feeling” words out there, but rather showing emotion through image and deep thought.

      Liked by 1 person

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