Indigo Eyes

If this is it then what is this

what can I possibly do as

a desert rises ready to choke us all

bulging from beneath, nearly unstoppable

a people ready to accept defeat

 

I am disgusted by what is here

as sticky sweat is mixed with cascading tears

and cheap perfume and moist

air

and the rotten scent of dirty dishes

and the sound of the scarred hand that makes the tears and the vibrations

that make the dishes swim in their filth

with the voice that tries to stop it all

but realizes too late the ears that will not listen

and the faces behind all three that I see

regrets and aspirations and obligations and appointments and confirmations and cancelations

and finally that vast space of dark purple and black between

eyelid and eye which visits every night to

turn off the light 

and squeeze tight

signaling no promise of tomorrow

but always making me feel lonely

 

under the soft indigo, wedged somewhere in hopelessness, but more hope

you can find a tiny place where I rest my soul

not in those dishes

or the tears

I would drown in their small pools

but eyes prone to burst forward, clear and concentrated

pupils black as fresh pavement laid softly by the same people

who feel this same way

every day

and I can’t help but whisper to them

“If this is it, then what is this?”

 

A dry mouth moves up and down slowly

and with effort and strength answers simply, “I really do not believe this is it.”

And as Henry singles me out, meeting my dark pupils among the crowd

his words and mine become like

alphabet soup before my face in the air

inviting and unorganized

spread out under the sky which is a lighter, less heavy blue today

I arrange them the way I want amongst the chaos and they spell:

eternity