I can see it,
The imagery is blinding.
Everything I see
Collides—subatomic
It's there,
Begging attention,
Begging me
Not to look underneath
Yet
It's not yet time,
I'm not yet ready,
So instead
I see just fine.
I can be perfect like this:
Clean,
And with unmarred conscience
I look right ahead
At the world
As it is:
As I wish it to be
Blinds me to the world
As it is not
As I want not
It to be
To be
Is to be
Really aware
Of the world
As I am,
As I reach through
And pull toward
What is right.
I am not
An ignorant thing
Who does not believe
As it isn't:
As nobody wants
I want not.
I cannot quite
Believe what I see.
To be free,
One has to
Blind oneself.
Only then
Will one be
Aware of what does not
Seem to be
In the world
As it does not
Wish to be seen.
Will I find
What is there
Unaware
Of what is seen—
Of what can be believed
And what is believed
Is not of any concern
To what is really there.
If a squared circle is round,
Then a ball is a box.
If it's not,
Then all hell breaks loose!
And life is a noose
With no slack
Round a blind man's neck
Poor soul:
In a hole
Six feet deep,
And awful damp.
An honest man
In the face of a lamp.
Too bad
That the light
Is no more.
That his face is obscured.