Eyes Have Tired

They have tried
but they have tired.
They are broken then repaired
then repeated by the grace of
gaudy guidelines;
sealed into some elastic vacuum,
bloated on the calories
of stimulus, recycled
into gorging immortality.

Tried and questionably
true eyes have me wondering
how much of me is longing
to be reborn, while the rest
of me is pushing for retirement:
siphoning the mutual exclusion
from the has-beens
and the never-weres.

On the very soul
an infantry of urban billboards –
shooting glue of thick mortality –
are bidding in hostility for papering
rights.