Meeting Myself Coming Back

The trails through the past are muddy

and rarely lead to who we are.

Yesterday’s eyes are foggy

as is the mirror we accuse of lying.

Even our lovers do not know us.

Eyes look past us

to where they think we are.

One eye of everyone is a man,

one a woman. An inner eye

is both. Vision may see

with wishes instead of light.

No eye can see its true color

except in reflection, often dim

in a sad world of darkness.

But sometimes sadness

sees through the newborn child

hyperlaughing at the world,

who still could be anyone,

whose eyes are large and locked

on our long-forgotten joy.