Sighted

What can there be but base uneasiness
When what should be's disrupted in its course?
The changed potential throbs like an abcess
Constantly insisting some vile force
Must have come over all the world to change
What ought to be into what really is,
To modify, reorganize, derange
The clear, pure truth, and froth it into fizz.
Yet those who live more comfortably for that
Are blind to how the change aches in the air
And like it so. For them, the world is pat
And clean the way it is; they like it there.
I find I often am the second kind,
But long to be the first, and not be blind.