Eye sockets are houses haunted.
They are ash trays overflowing
with roundness wet and warm
like swarming maggot armies.
Eyes are rooted by blood tendrils
holding back blatantly
all those damn memories.
The iris, a facade. Projection
into reality garnished with beauty.
Reality, a farce perception
of writhing maggot infested,
smoke filled, empty, endless agony
inducing houses with windows-
into the soul, God help us all.
Don't look into my eyes,
there is a tragedy.
A canvas begging bloody harvest.
I pull back eye lids, curious-
I examine the ugly that is essentially a tool to see ugliness.
I giggle at the irony, the tragic irony.
I think to myself-
Oedipus had the right idea.
©stanz
S