Almost Blind

You remember vaguely
a time of certainty,
of a conviction that the world stood still and solid beneath your feet,
and earthquakes were myths.

It was a beautiful belief,
a child’s faith that extended far into adulthood,
the innocence of an adult
untested and unbroken.

Your world was a place of blue horizons,
of storms not seen, a special kind of blindness,
genetically unable to see what was there,
what everyone else, it appears, saw.

Innocence?
Stupidity?
You may never know.

Today, you live in this place of storms.
Of dark clouds
and the earth unsteady beneath your feet.
Life has become a dance between lightning strikes
and disappointments,
your eyes clearer now,
able to see
too much.

And yet, as the clouds darken,
you stand still,
almost blind,
rose colored classed in hand,
polishing them and wondering
why they no longer work.

About this poem

I am the original rose colored glasses guy. Even when I am not.

Tom