Charles Bonnet Syndrome


When sight returned to me, I didn’t ask questions,

certainly not, one must not look a gift horse in the mouth,

there are nobler employments for eyes reborn, but now

I very nearly wish I had asked, the world has shrunken,

the colors are all wrong, tartan birds with cartoon eyes

sing in silence from the treetops, spirographs tumble

across deserted old west streets, it rains fluorescent

jelly beans that quietly crescendo into glow, then sigh

themselves back to sleep, IT IS NOT REAL, I know, they

hit the ground without a whisper, they tell me nothing,

never truth, my eyes have simply found a hobby in their

early retirement, I nod at the monotone psychiatrist whose

face I will never see as anything but darkness or a ringed

planet, and I would never choose the former, no matter

what I tell him, let me have my flock, let me see a sky so

bright it tastes sour, IT IS NOT REAL, but seeing is believing,

they say.