Photophobia

A poem about illness.

Like a committed brute
I feared print and light,
Yet envied those who faced
These demons as though tame.

Mysterious again,
The outside on their wings
Crept in in tiny bits
To tempt a fatal glance.

With every heavy blow
I learned (too slow! too slow!)
The treachery of things
That lure a hungry eye.

My cave I crawled in hurt,
It held me, tall and dark;
Its portals clad in black,
I was there doubly trapped.

But now I have a truce
With things of light and print
And hope to be their friend
And only be trapped once.