The problem is less your sight
that the glasses you see through,
imperfect things, thick and messy,
full of history and lies and distance,
sometimes murky, sometimes twisted
beyond recognition, fun house mirrors
you somehow believe as true and clear
as you paint your own portraits,
bright and visit, rich with false colors
that in the end, you knew were false,
but are better than the truth
of the mirror.
About this poem
It’s all about the lenses. And we choose the ones we see through.