Irritation

The light is the problem--
the street lights, the headlights of passing cars.
The beams catch in the crack, make it
a white-hot slash across the windshield--
wake its slumber, turn its familiar presence
into something foreign and fractured.

Your uncompromising light
stings in the splinters of my vision.
The landscape fragments behind a web of sparks--
little threads throwing angry colors.
I must believe that, unlike glass,
My sight shall be mended.

That, I suppose, is exactly Your point.

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This post is participating in Life:Unmasked , an opportunity hosted and created by Joy in this Journey.