IT is an involuntary pastime
that needs no coaxing,
nor special training.
IT mistakenly insists that its vision of you
has always been
clear and unbiased.
IT cannot hear the crackling sound of
icicles on a front porch.
IT cannot feel the solar wind that gently glazes a
face with eyes closed.
IT cannot sense the galactic pulsation of a
the multitudes who YOU have touched,
know nothing of your pre-occupation of
For they are far too busy
being blinded by