A Poor Coping Device

Contemplating the steam raising from my coffee,
I sit over the city of ruination and dream,
Of hope, of love, of utter despair;
Cast my eyes over you for the last time,
Tomorrow, I may be blind, I fear.

Like by fish, people pass by my personal bowl,
And, from within, I sip my drink and sigh;
Smiles on celestial bodies swagger over seas,
A ship, two sails, a captain at the bow,
Navigating to dock, floating overhead;
Casting my eyes over you for the last time,
Tomorrow, I may be blind, I feel.

Colours fade into blacks and greys,
As the light grows increasingly intolerable to bear,
No burden meant to be borne by none outside myself,
Words on the page fall out of focus,
And I learn to read through a shaking blur.

Casting my eyes over you for the last time,
Wishing to remember every detail in sharp recall,
Losing what little sight I had with which to behold,
Tomorrow, I may be blind, I am told.

Savour my final coffee watching the world,
Fade away into glorious haze and glare,
In my eyes, blue to the swirling brown—
It reminds me of your beautiful hair—
And, tomorrow, I will be blind.