it started where it always starts
at the very beginning

the eyes opened slowly,
like opening a rusty tin-can
with a rusty can-opener
and rusty fingers
in slow-motion
in the dark gray of early morning
in november

it was almost painful just to experience light
cause it wasn't bright
nor gloomy
just gray... on gray... on gray...

and nothing else

it might have been just the imagination but
there were squeaking noises
coming from the eyelids
as though they were in a state of constant protest
... the rest of the known world seemed to agree
even the wind sounded whiny

rushing past the window
jostling the windowsill in the process

the sneakiness was appreciated though
filling this gray void with a continuous push

an imagined mother trying to push an unwilling existence
grown strangled in a womb
with no real way out
but through the wall of moist tissue
like an alien
inside an unknowing host
an ungrateful alien
inside a hateful host

eyelids have a choice to make each time they're forced open
stay open or shut tight

it ended where it began

in the eyes

in the end

closed

/