The eyelash fell from my open eye, dead and tragic. It lies on the white card table black and awful. Some folks place it delicately on their finger, dream a wish, and send it to the winds. I don't want to touch it. How can a person find hope in a fallen eyelash? It is lifeless. It no longer serves a function. It's a piece of trash, litter.
Where do all the fallen eyelashes go? How many have heedlessly floated forth from the human race's infinite eyes? Do they end up in the sea? Is there a fallen eyelash fairy working full time to secure the lashes? No. There is nothing so cozy and imaginative. They flit about on a lonely journey until they decompose. Only cruel science at work.
It sits still and unmoving on the table. And my throat chokes when I see it. So send your Sunday school teachers over here to remove it.
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