Focus

I have a tiny little hole in my eye,

Some embolistic rupture from the pressure

That pushes my blood through my veins,

Which carry it round my body,

When I look at white paper, or a blue sky,

I catch glimpses of what is always there,

But of which I am usually unaware,

A tiny dot,

A blurred little burr,

To the lower left of my right eye's vision,

Putting it overall, just right of centre,

It is always there,

Weather or not I am aware,

And on those occasions,

When I notice,

I try to look at it more closely,

But it evades the capture of sight.

Every time I look directly at it,

It moves,

Being part of my eye,

It moves when my eye moves,

And so the tennis game goes on,

40 love to the embolism,

Game, set and match,

I'll never catch it,

Unless the whole eye goes dark.

It lives in the peripheral.

I have a tiny hole in my soul,

A spot, 

A speck I cannot see,

And whenever I look at it,

The bugger moves,

And I can never focus on it,

For it cannot be looked at directly,

But lives within the periphery.

It is all I can do to acknowledge,

It is there,

And from time to time,

When the environment is bright enough,

It floats around on the edges,

Just to remind me.

Specks.

Eyes.

Planks.

Thorns,

Prayers.

Grace.

Sufficiency.