Eyes Bulging into the Deep

Eyes bulging out into the deep. Rays let loose by a splinter-torch. A cause not plainly expressed Beneath a dressed-up disguise. Inside — emptiness. Boring. No need to stay silent? Or need? A snuffed-out soul. Stuffy. But I need to breathe. I need. And to be angry at memory, at dates — As if there's no point anymore. The memories are too weak, The ones where we exist, sort of. Places in some faraway lands — Eyelids leaf through them like a book. Museums and noisy pubs. And us next to them, sort of. We ourselves, like these pages, Are worn. New faces Land on them more and more rarely. And the old ones — memory cuts away. Pensiveness rises with age. Listening less, you hear more. Life's potholes show more clearly. With the years we get wiser, sort of…