Central Serous Chorioretinopathy 

The cave walls inside my eyes hold

the remains of ruffles that show up when 

I read or face a brick wall; the wavy pattern 

of the lines tells me that something is wrong.

Dark as motor oil on a tuft of waste cotton, 

the uneven patches absorb the rays of light

but beam them up reluctantly as grey-toned,

frostbitten reflections of a funhouse mirror.

Periodically, my eye doctor shines a light on

the matter like a Will o' the Wisp, offering 

me a close-up of her pearl earrings, 

which gleam like lighthouses, miles away.

And I am told to adjust course and steer 

clear of stress and its impact that distorts

a world which would have been straight 

if I had learned to see it differently.