The endless desert of my demise.
The open skies covering me like a blanket soaking my sweat.
And having these memories,
these haunting pains that take only a moment,
that take only a flash of light.
They all call it grace,
love,
nature.
What am I missing when I can’t see,
when the light is blinding me?
They call it grace and the great gift.
The surpassing of time, the lingering of
feelings longing to be felt again.
Just once more.
And they call it grace,
love,
nature.
What am I missing when I can’t see?
And
what am seeing that is being missed?
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I like your poem. I want another stance on when it is that you can’t see and what that feels like.