Spectacles

I was flipping through my old poetry book the other day and came across this...

They belong to my face as much as jutting
factory chimneys do to a Wordsworthian landscape.
Silver wire trying so hard to meld into
the curving idiosyncrasies of my nose and cheekbones.
Has it really helped my vision? Or has the world
been robbed of its smudged
watercolour curves, to be cast
into gaudy colours and poky angles, subtle greys overcome
                                                                       by white
Or black.
Both? No!
It was sharp vision that sent mixed messages to
green, panting brains, painting the world in uncompromising
                                                                             red.
It was sharp vision that ripped black veils
and forced weeping widows into drooping white.
It was sharp vision that pushed a thin, myopic old man
onto a pedestal of wet cement, trapping him as a
shiny slick statue
to be looked at, to be left behind
in clouds of dust, straining to see
his beaten, battered vision.
Pierce through the eye-baiting bronze to
the slick damp flesh slithering underneath. See his blood
flow, pumped into motion by a grey heart. Watch the watercolour man take
                                                             raspy breaths and smudge into a
kaleidoscope
- blue-red-black-white-orange-green
Take off your glasses. See the watercolour world
Where orange flows into green and
white embraces black.