The Weight of Artificial Sight

Fluorescent light splits the glass,

a pale orb catches fractured flashes.

Fingers tremble, adjusting an eye

that sees but never quite lies.

Half-made, whole broken—no neat lines

where flesh ends and something else begins.

The man’s gaze—mechanical, soft—

holds stories neither false nor oft.

Reflection shatters, refracted pain,

a fragile artifact that bears the stain

of silence, waiting, trying to mend,

his own half-sight that never pretends.