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Ian Tishler
Poems
Jul 2015
grayscale.
with the gift of eyesight i was given,
pupils to gaze from, with the corneas of a heathen.
when he saw the iris's of one whose iris's are like those
of iris's in meadow; vast and wondrous.
he thought it was cataracts, but 'twas only a head-cold,
deep in the mind, where the his cortex got cerebral,
his gray matter gave colorful thoughts
to a black & white consciousness,
and was forever engraved
into the brain of what was seen as a sane man
who never staked his claim
as a brain full of grayscale, but heart full of gold.
Written by
Ian Tishler
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