How could I do this for Melanie? How could I paint her soft, serene and sickly sweet? I've got smeared colors all in front of me and yet the picture always dries so neat.

How could I do this for Monica, when I cringe at every word I hear her speak? My guitar and harmonica are smoothing out her voice, though I feel weak.

I've got more I want to say, but old eyes get in the way — an old prescription tinting her a lighter gray. Old feelings, still the same. Why did I keep the frames? They blur the faces yet I still recall the names. These glasses take the blame.

How could I do this for Miriam? Every line I write, it still inspires awe. Every noun, every homynm describes her as still within the boundaries of the law.

There's more I could convey, but these eyes get in the way. They lack the smarts to grade the scene that's on display. Vision is tunnel straight, but it's a little late for the hope of a child who never left the starting gate. These glasses took the bait.