The Red Eyed Witness

At first it was a shelter,
a place to evade movement.
A clot thinning,
a blockade that exists,
restraint through the veins.

Upright yet unraveling,
posture as proof.
Secluded, breath held tight inside,
while commotion moves as it pleases.

Fading in the open,
dissolved slowly by daylight.
Fear not...
they do not see.

Photo by Atharva Tulsi on Unsplash

A boy swallowed by the street
notices bare feet planted on the rock.
“Get these,” he says.

Eyes follow him,
seeing without reading.

A red eyed witness.
The boy steps back,
erased by the noise.

He continues to sell,
but not to whom he intended.

Stories of the unfortunate
are told and told again,
and somewhere in the telling
I whisper:

Help...
I need to see.

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