I saw the road in the rearview mirror,
but I wish to see my eyes.
So your mother shifted it,
and these eyes of mine are brand new.
I remember those days.
I remember her shifting her mirror,
just to see my eyes,
just to get me to talk.
I remembered my own mother,
but the past tenses caught up to me.
I try hard to remember her,
but she's nothing but a discolored memory.
Those brand new eyes of mine,
they've never seen living agony.
They only saw through smile crinkles,
eye wrinkles.
It's been ten years,
your friend here is seventeen,
and these eyes are far,
far away from brand new.
They only witness smile crinkles,
eye wrinkles.
They know living agony,
these used eyes of mine.
I haven't seen your mother,
but I saw you.
You're lucky to see my eyes,
far from it to hear me talk.
I see my eyes in the rearview mirror,
but instead of your harmonic family,
it's my discordant one,
and I wish to see the road.
YOU ARE READING
Noyadé
PoezjaA series of small works: finished works and unfinished scraps and sober thoughts and inebriated words and drunk minds and me. All of me in here.
