In perfection, 

a day abstract, without clouds,

dirt, confusion. 

 

The ennui of the casual

rhythm of the daily walk, 

low attraction and 

freely moving. 

 

On such days, before horizons aplenty

lie my glasses 

smudged in the dirt and

scraped by the road asphalt.

Speckled with dust, 

stained with raindrops, 

streaked across the wind. 

 

An evening streetlamp 

morphs into glittering

lines, and glowing golden radiance. 

 

Passing cars turn into

streaks, colored neon,

bright sparking beams in the 

darkened roads.

 

Dawn creeps like 

rising solar dust 

climbing over and through

the buildings aplenty.

 

Perfection, I watch

skies 

seemingly unending, 

in a single shade of 

unchanging blue, 

beauty to so many.

Another might gaze 

upon its might and think

of freedom, of its hugeness.

But without my blurry glasses

monotony observed is what I see.