Contact Lenses

I see things a little differently –
A window to try how far I can fly,
A gun to wonder tongue of the barrel,
Round white pills to stop my irregular heart.
Sound is not sound,
No wavelength,
No noise.
Sound is warm air
Which leaves ice on the floor,
On the walls, so
My backwards momentous movement is met with no foothold and
Everyone’s hands look peculiarly like icicles.
Don’t dare tell me the streetlamp is so!
That strange glow is foreign,
Too low.
Lock the door,
Draw the shades,
Those leaves are most certainly curious eyes.
Do not take this to mean I love Death.
I am married to Life and to Life I devote myself, but
I fear she might be plotting, conniving,
Sending those lights,
Those eyes,
Setting them here, to infiltrate my haven.
Double-crossed, searching for love,
I flirt with Death
For just a small taste.