Myopic and old,

These words arrive 

Through a purple mist.

Bending together

In blue and red waves —

Their pixelated motorcade

Dances around my eyes.

Dressed in a silky gown 

Of light replete, and revered

By those long onlookers —

My pursed lips droop.

The letters linger —

And for a moment

Etch themselves into me

Like acid on steel —

Sitting in their pew.

But soon they must repent,

And leave again

In animated somersaults,

Looking at me —

Doing as the circuit says.

And as is the fashion

To return without asking,

That same line crawls

Back up those seven towers

For indulgence.

Like a river — 

From the source

Drew their grainy words,

Living in plain view —

Though some choose not to hear.