Weirdo

I see the way the eyes betray the assertion,
the way the truth swirls like thick smoke in the core of the retinas.
I can hide much fiction without difficulty,
but the eyes, they betray me every time.
I see the way they look at me, these old eyes,
the weight of their stare,
and how deeply they feel for me.
They apologize to me, out of reverent pity.
These eyes grasp the gravity of the situation they have created,
and they know the depth of their actions.
They see how ill-equipped I am for this world,
how woefully exposed I am to the dangers that be,
how my state of being could change in an instant.
They are my creator, these aging eyes,
they are the eyes that bought me into the world,
and they are the eyes that see who I have become for it.

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