And there is another one.
The rushing traffic of the blind marches on.
They do not see.
Sometimes you wish that you too were blind
because it easier not to see and easier to forget.
Because when you have vision
you look in to the reflection of the world
and see a cardboard box.
Huddled. Alone. Invisible.
Her swollen eyes
tell you more than you can know.
Dead hair hangs about her face.
Limp life draining away.
She sees you and them
but does not beg.
a worn white flag battered by raging winds.
Inside sickly sweet victory greets a bloated stomach
as you watch yourself,
Waiting for the clock
to tick forward
and leave us all behind.