Ana Maria. They say her brain broke.

I used to be her. She came from good folk.

Post operation, I’m not the same girl.

Thought alteration is such a mind whirl.

Does this brain allow sight through disguise?

Did Ana Maria’s eyes tell lies?

Is happiness good or cruel sometimes?

Are forced smiles worse than solemn rhymes?

Ana Maria would not have said no.

Who would defeat her, I let them all go.

I stood up for her and watched her fade out,

Said goodbye to them but not without doubt.

Was I right to leave them all behind?

Which one, hers or mine, was the right mind?

Will I miss them though they were unkind?

Will I wish, someday, for a rewind?

Should I reverse the operation?

To better fit the population?

And to prevent self isolation?

Or make this pain my new vocation?

So I make glasses to share with the world.

If they look through them, they’ll see life unfurled.

Who will look through them, maybe no one will.

It doesn’t matter. I’m making them still.

Look, Ana Maria, there’s someone like you,

Who’s putting on glasses to see something new.