Without My Glasses
By Henri Whitehead
Without my glasses,
The distinctive lines drawn
By our world’s creator
Are no more than
Drops of color in the distance.
The concrete, scientific rules
That instruct the sun to set for the evening
Turn to abstract, and
Empty lines are filled with
My imagination.
The nightmarish grey blobs
That occasionally fly pass my position
On the lonely hill
Next to the rural road
Are transformed.
The silver clad knights
Race to conquer
The monstrous red dragon,
Laying its wrath of orange fire
On the horizon.
