Focal

Focal

In the glass of morning’s eye, a single point,
Where light converges, a soft‑focused gleam,
The world contracts to that still, shining joint—
A hub of colour, a quiet, steadfast scheme.

It sits like a lighthouse on a fog‑laden coast,
Guiding wandering thoughts to its steady blaze,
Each ray a thread, each shadow a host,
Drawn inward to the centre’s gentle blaze.

Yet focus is not merely sight’s narrow gate,
It pulses in the breath, the heartbeat’s drum,
In the poet’s pause, the lover’s wait,
In the moment when all distractions succumb.

So let us find our focal, true and clear,
Where inner light and outer meet sincere.