Epitomised, held in black glass corneas,
now reduced to flesh and blood.
So fragile, so stainable.
its image, unattainable.
So draining on the retina,
that the eye couldn't sustain.
It rolled down in a liquid globe,
muddy, opaque, sickly,
That only reflects itself,
birthing infinity in its womb.
A gloomy infinity.
For it's the object that makes infinity private.
But its object watches from without,
not capable of acknowledging its origin.
And the origin doesn't want to acknowledge its manifestation.
The gloomy globe bears mute witness to the pain.
For it's so much easier to hate imperfection,
than to love the nearly perfect.