The Crooked Lens

Sanity walks with a limp today,  

its shoes scuffed, laces undone,  

staggering in daylight, squinting at shapes.  

Some say it's a matter of angles,  

how the light bends or tricks you.  

The sidewalks whisper insults softly,  

a flirtation with madness in every crack.  

The coffee burns like a joke untold,  

and no one notices the stains on shirts.  

Perspective shifts like cheap whiskey does,  

one sip, you're king; the next, crawling.  

A dog's bark sounds like a sermon,  

or maybe it's just noise holding hands.  

The skyline crushes me with its irony,  

glass and concrete screaming their silence.  

Someone laughs too loud in the train car,  

their face shapes into a suffocating mask.  

You call this a world,  

I call it a kaleidoscope of traps.  

Which one's clearer, your eye or mine?  

Maybe neither, maybe both, who cares.