I spot dirt
In my contact lens

Through which
My world appears
Clouded

As a strain
Of peripheral errors,

Distorted
From seeing
Too much –

And looking close
Though we mustn’t

At what blatant
Specks
Provide reason

For rejecting sight
Like sensation

Not worth
Our trust
It assumes.

Such evidence
Painted by hues
Find life
Often muddles
These visions

By chance
When discovering freedoms

While restoring
Some monochrome
Scene –

Inspiring roles
Never played

Merely felt
Or observed
Over decades

Accepting
Blemishes brazen
Enough that
Truth
Becomes blurred.

Color escapes
Blinded eyes

But meaning
Remains
Vivid pictures,

Only bright
If perceived beyond limits –

Perpetual
Though sadly
Obscured.

• J. Pigno