the lens we hold

We walk with lenses fixed and clear,
a world of colors close and near,
painted bright and real and right—
each leaf and face, each wrong and right.

Art speaks softly, whispers low,
that skies are red and seas can glow,
that shadows dance and doors can sing,
and every shape can be a wing.

But still, we clutch the frames we know,
gripping tight, refusing flow.
If light is strange or lines don’t fit,
we shift our gaze, denying it.

We say we know the hues of truth,
that hearts are blue and fields are youth,
that walls are borders firm and hard—
we see no line we can discard.

And yet, beneath our visions bright,
some find shade and others night,
some see freedom, others chain—
the world, both prison and terrain.

Oh, if we changed the glass we wear,
we’d see one sky, a single air,
the hands we point could open wide
to hold the earth on every side.

But here we stand, our colors clenched,
the visions clear, convictions drenched.
We draw our lines, our arms, our walls,
and echo empty battle calls.

So art keeps breathing, soft and low,
and waits for eyes to let it show
that peace is seen when lines dissolve,
when frames break free, when hearts evolve.

And in that softened, altered sight,
what’s dark is bright, what’s wrong feels right,
a world reshaped by hands unbound,
by lenses lost and kindness found.