under the moonlight.
You said the night
cast our shadows:
this wasn’t true.
You would put on that mask
and hold me near
tell me all was fine
that night knew no fear.
I laughed and said the night knew of us,
so of course
the night bathed
in the waters of the wicked.
The three of us
together as one:
and his mask
for the night is quire.
Look through these spectacles and tell me what you see.
I see a woman, not short, but not tall. She has short blonde hair that frays at the ends like old weathered twine. Her face is soft, but not lovely: bags under her eyes, aged from meth amphetamine, and a black eye. Her clothes are torn, patched in areas, and mismatched. She walks with her head down, shuffling her feet.
Now, put on these spectacles and tell me what you see.
I see a woman, not short, but not tall. She has long, glossy blonde hair. Her face is soft, almost polished with diamond dust. She wears a red, silk dress. And she walks with confidence.
Which spectacles are you looking through?
Often times, I gaze through lenses tainted by my own intolerance and character defects. I see a vision of my own misjudgments, and there lies no color, just black and white clouds rupturing into a storm of ignorance.
Sometimes, I just have to wear different spectacles.