In the middle of the city stands a building
Made of glass, though you can't see inside
Like the sunglasses worn by the people on the street,
Who in their dark brown shaded world hide.

At the bottom of the garden is a frog pond,
But you can't see the bottom for the mud
Like the people bleeding from internal ruptures:
Needing healing, though you can't see the blood.

In the centre of the woodland is an oak tree
Covered up with the climbing ivy green
Like the girl who sits behind you each and every morning,
Hid behind her black-clothed metal music sheen.

Hanging in your living room there's a picture
That you don't see until you step away
Like the boy who lies on his bedroom floor sobbing,
But is the life and soul of the party in the day.

In this cataclysmic lifetime twists a labyrinth
You won't see til you use your other eye
Which sees more than the self put forward by others,
But looks beyond it; looks them in the I.