In a land filled with lovers
who appreciate the colors,
the same man,
living many lives.
for a blind man,
made of many eyes.
All of them sightless.
I can feel the lovers,
and the colors.
I feel the different hues,
but what is yellow to blind me,
when all I know is blues?
Let them have their color.
Let them have their eyes,
but for me a blind man,
made of many eyes,
it is hard that I can’t die,
because I’m living many lives.
People tell me many lies.
Or at least I think so,
they tell me truths my eyes cant see,
and I would live with one eye with glasses
instead of being blind,
and many-eyed like me.
Could you imagine not seeing the colors that you do?
The only hue you know is a dull gray?
That I would trade all my days,
just so I could have a glimpse into your reality.
Filled with gray bitterness and hate
because things you don’t appreciate,
I would do anything to possess,
and I have a hundred eyes, but I see less
than if I had two
like normal you.
You tell lies,
because out of all my many lives,
you tell truths my eyes cant see,
so you see like two eyed you,
not blind like many eyed me.
In my opinion, the best impersonal thing that I have ever written.