The Corner Of The Eye

This is a poem I wrote for my grandmother's funeral.

The corner of the eye.

The corner of the eye, with bounds unknown,
Veils secrets so extraordinary, so prone
To revelation with a quickened glance,
Like a switch, a Blitzkrieg advance,
That the line between both twins,
Appears vague and blurred within
The corner of the eye.

The corner of the eye, with minute vision,

Captures those memories without collision,
Or a splotch, or a smudge, or a smear,

Nor with the consequence of ink, dear,
Dear darling, dearest, dear Mr, dear Mrs,
On tear-stained letters followed by reminisces
Read by the corner of the eye.

The corner of the eye is exercised seldom,
Spare the tears with floodgate latent, unwelcomed,
When looked upon the lost by matter of guise,
‘Cos those ghost-like professionals, with improvised
Words, divergent to their closed-book souls,
Deem the paper more worthy than to console,
Those tears from the corner of the eye.

The corner of the eye, open to fire,
Blazes with a inconstant shade that doesn’t retire,
Those million phantoms with decontrolled faces, 
Deserve more than a thousand embraces.
And to the solemn song they sigh:
We love you dear darling, and, goodbye,
We’ll see you again in the corner of the eye.

The corner of the eye, where they are stored,
Ever since the cutting of the cord,
Enclosed in that eternal, umbilical orb,
Can they, reflectively, be absorbed?
A quick glance into a window, a mirror,
And they are so, so much nearer
To the corner of the eye. 

And to the living echo, they sigh:
We love you dear darling, and goodbye,
We’ll see you again in the corner of the eye.