With coal dust in your myopic eyes
You see warped, distorted images
Like reflections in carnival mirrors,
The surface of disturbed water,
Or the cave of a polished spoon.
Seeing with a visual apparatus
Slick with a film of judgment
Perhaps renders your discolored,
Tinged view of my world and me
To yourself most sightly.
But, how long will you bear to see nightshade where there actually bloom roses?
Serpents where there actually stand people?
Relieve yourself of that judgmental culture, your cataract, your coal dust.
Do yourself a favor: wash your eyes and see,
Behold the beauty that is,
Rather than contriving an ugliness that never was.