Eyes of the Blind

by Iain Joseph
my eldest son
I seclude myself.
I avoid looking at anything that offers a reflection.
It’s not self-pity I suffer from
But utter frustration.

Hardly can I open my eyes
Without being consumed by frivolity.
I see a dispute
And I turn away in disgust.
I hear laghter
And hate the sound of it.
I see tears
And I laugh.

Alone,
Drinking them in silence.
I seem to be forever crying
But nobody sees,
For my tears are inside.
Were I to let them out
They would only be misinterpreted.
And consolation,
That is the worst of all.
Put a hand on my shoulder
And I’ll ignore it with burning volition.
Hating the gesture
And despising whence it came.
And if I see, hear, feel nothing at all,
I disregard the world
And seek comfort in the eyes of the blind.