Everything is different —
the familiar grown strange,
and the warm turned cold.
Can it be that the entire
world has changed
overnight, become foreign territory,
a lunar landscape?
The rose glasses have darkened,
taking on a deeper hue that
bathes the horizon in black,
distorting the view and
blocking the sun.
Can we not strip them
from our eyes, cast
them in the rubbish heap,
and see again the lush greens,
the cerulean blues, the golds;
hear the gentle, warm breeze
whisper, it’s not too late.

© 2015 DM Shepherd


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