before they gave me glasses, the world looked much like this: a bright and mystic disarray, a warm chaotic bliss -- but then i saw the details, the world turned outside-in -- for there was something sad, i think, in just how blind i'd been

before they gave me glasses, the world looked much like this: a bright and mystic disarray, a warm chaotic bliss -- but then i saw the details, the world turned outside-in -- for there was something sad, i think, in just how blind i'd been
she hands to me a picture, she's made, at five years old, and there is nothing finer -- nothing of silk, or gold, could mean as much, or be as much. you know what i speak of: there are no colors brighter than those made out of love
in art class, we learned gouache. the hues were bright and bold, when i was young, so very young, and life was red and gold, and purple, yellow, maybe green. it's seared into my brain -- in art class, we did gouache, and colors fell like rain
in the cold, the fire warms, in the night, the light shines through; all the colors make the spectrum, one or two just will not do -- here upon the brightways travel: though the shapes may now seem strange, where there's light, there should be vision; we can take it in, and change
she came to me with green, but i had only blue; as colors flow and blend we felt, and then we knew that misfits only fit amiss where they do not fit in: and every kind of solace grows if light can just get in
i live within insomnia, its shadows ever o'er me, but see beyond a somewhere-else that i can keep before me. i choose the brightways of the mind to live on, and to travel, for stories live in twisted lights that we're meant to unravel
through dull glass we see distant lights, maybe friends come back to see us, or returned to see us skyward
cues painted in watercolors by nature -- veins flowing in whims and patterns wavering
cool to the touch, this smooth, polished sense of permanence -- still, but still through her whole body she feels this