Perspective

The forest is but trees.

Nobody forgets the forest for the trees.
The forest hides, in plain sight
And it’s not our eyes that conspire
Nor our mind, with the trees;
It’s the light.
Nowhere to go but straight,
The light leads us straight to something.
From above, the forest is but leaves,
Rustling in the wind,
Dancing to the chaos of something somewhere;
From within, it’s a lot of grass, trunks,
And the light trickling from above,
Not green, it’s dark.
From the outside, it is trees,
A lot of trees.
We all see it; we all have a picture
Of what the woods are.
They are indeed dark and deep
And probably lovely too;
But the picture changes,
How did we see the same thing,
And feel it differently;
Blame the light.
But the light never means it,
They have no malice,
It’s our malice that seals
Malice onto inanimate things.
To see something is to look straight into its heart.
But, that is seldom possible.
To see the woods for what she is,
I know I can’t just be looking at it myself,
I have to see it, through other eyes,
Many, many paths for the light to reach me.
But I always remember, there are mirages,
The air tricks the light sometimes.
In the sea of confusion,
I need to know how to look, but
There is no correct perspective;
There is reality though.
There is a full version of reality,
Hidden among the sights,
Yielding to but the tenacious,
The poets ready to hear the song.
Poetry is, after all, putting the obvious
Into the limelight, in a different light.