With the plastic gone from my eyes,
the light of life becomes blurred,
sensation and reality only corrupted.
Is any of it real?

Man talks about letters long written;
The dreams of sunsets flown.
Questions long to fill some sequential
Order to the reality of Living.
And darkness intrudes all.

But that glimmer of imagination,
Alters events happened in different Lights,
Different sounds,
Will my voice change the winds of
Tomorrow? Or the passage of the Sun?

Perhaps my sneezes will force the sun
to rise in the West one day...
And still, looking forward into the
Myth of history, the altered visions of dreaming
Poets saw a different past,
And created for them, ourselves,
Corrupted lights from Angels unseen.

The Blur of life is a certainty,
That it isn't truly there.
Life is a dream, the colors only
Weaves of our own imagination,
All swirling in chaos,
Attempting to be conformed to our minds...