I miss the good old days
when my mind was pure
and my flame of imagination
shined bright
through the bleakness of the world.
I never knew
how much I knew back then.
Until now
if that makes sense.
I could see things
for what they were,
the black sides,
the white sides,
the gray areas
and all the gaudy colors in between.
I could gaze and relish the wild patterns
of leaves zipping by on the autumn wind.
I once saw the second side
of the optical illusions
first.
I was aware of the magical faint
silver glow
cast by the constant overcast clouds.
The very clouds I was convinced
supported the weight of heaven,
thus explaining the surrounding
mystical aura.

Now I see in gloom-filtered resent.
I see in black
and white.
No grays
and no colors.
I resent the bitter winds
that cut to my bones
as I walk along
the dreary sidewalk.
Optical illusions cease
to amaze me and
the clouds are just clouds,
nothing more
than condensed water
waiting to rain on my parade.
Heaven is no longer,
for I have fallen
from its presence.

And yet, for brief moments at a time,
I can see
bright green leaves
dancing upon the treetops,
illuminated by the silver glow
of paradise.