Confessions from an Aberration

She sat alone at a table, accompanied by  bound friends,
and waited upon by a cup filled with comfort and warmth.
Her eyes found mine in a flick, and spoke a bared-up welcome.
Then came the sideways huff as if to dismiss an aberration.

I was not real, and my flesh turned transparent in that glance,
The look of crossbow bolts finding a home in a hollow chests.
To be fair my absent mind may have warranted disgust.

I might have misplaced her name in a poor substitute.
I might have mistaken her identity in passing salute.
I might have been oblivious to some personal foul.
My existence might have been more than grace could allow.

It is well that my pitiable state inoculated me against Medusa’s gaze,
for only men are frozen by her eye’s disinterested weight.
A drizzling cloud preceded me, shrouding me in apathy,
an armor suit, a dressing for my sense’s mortal casualty.

For years I walked by unphased, a patient of that burn ward.
I would pass that table many times without a second look.
My breastplate stood strong, and with my visor down I felt impervious
to the danger, yet I felt the clouds lifting and the son breaking through.

I could feel again!

Even now that I know her name, I never discovered the nature of her wound.
That table sits empty ever since her new friends entered service,
but she hasn’t forgotten the comfort found in a faithful book.
As far as I could tell her skies were turning and bowing in a promised reward.

She could see then!



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