Eye

An eye will see, if it chooses,
It will see something that,
For a brief moment,
Will be the one picture,
No other eye will see.

Nothing but an eye,
Beholds a sight so unique,
So beautiful, so natural,
In light, it takes in every wonder,
But the darkness, it will grow to love.

These pictures, these myriads of images,
All from this little organ,
A direct link to memory,
To take those moments in time and hold them high,
To play on our own secretive little drawings.

But memory is distorted with time,
And definitions are clouded by denial,
So the only eye to see its masterpiece,
Will be slowly bereaved of its work,
And the canvas is washed or smeared away.

We make the effort,
To hold dear in our minds,
The images we grow to love,
They are portals in time,
And miraculous art of a nameless artist.

But what good is this sculptor,
With no inspiration, no incentive to see?
I will treat him to his work,
And gaze upon images,
That man and God have entrusted to us to paint.

And yet, some are without sight,
Are they unworthy of witnessing miracles?
This is false, for just maybe,
The blessed darkness of peaceful blindness,
Would treat them to wondrous images of their own.

My eyes will see, as they choose,
They will see above the wretchedness and regularity,
And bow humbly to their own conceptions of beauty,
And take another glorious picture to keep,
As if it was their last.