©2021 Michael Raven
The three, I know them now — faces known to me. You know them, too. They celebrate, having ridden this down.
The blinding came to be. I can no longer see, and there were flames all around. Burning everything to the ground. Not a forest, but a bulwark I failed to keep. We witnessed the destruction together, under the stars, under the flames. I wish I could take your hand, it may have changed, but I never did have it, did I? Conspiracy drew us asunder — real or imagined. In the end, it didn’t matter.
It seems so clear now. Nothing is accident.
What is the point of seeing what can’t be altered? Seeing what can’t be known beyond the metaphor?
I wish I could see you rising. But I can see nothing; smoke, tears and blood in these blinded eyes. Cruel dreams, these.
In earnest, these nights, I wish to carve out my sight and toss those baleful orbs into the deepest well and forget I have seen anything at all. I never asked to witness these things twice.