Envisioning Wisdom

I don't want these eyes, anymore. Why can't I see the earth as Mary Oliver: a gentle mother scooping me up in her skirts, revealing her pocketed lichens and seeds, flowers and trees, and cradling me to sleep. Or Walt Whitman, when a child asks, what is the grass, and he sees a flag, the uncut hair of graves, and knows the identity of grass may be beyond understanding. Give me the surrealist mind of Van Gogh (maybe not the sight. He probably had enough chemical poisoning he actually saw the sky like he painted), that I might see the heavens in surrealist splendor. Open my eyes, so even a cut like Sylvia Plath hath had, might reveal a pilgrim, redcoats, a turkey, or a Plath-ian macabre element.
I don't see the world like Martin Luther King Jr, Gandhi, Sojourner Truth, Frederick Douglas, or Mother Teresa, but I want my sight opened unto that world, tragic and devastating though it may be, for all I see sometimes is fog hovering over the little pond of my world, and a few concerned frogs croaking on lilypads. I want to see people's souls like orchestral movements - the violin is hurting and a bit bitter, playing a sharp minor movement in cut time; or joyous, dancing between dam-bursting crescendo and frenzied, whispering mezzo-piano, allegro allegro! I can't tell if a river is a dance, or a mountain a ballroom dress, or if the world might make less sense with ever metaphorical pass-around.

Wisdom?
Words aren't working, anymore, and perhaps never again
I forget, friends, what breathing is and isn't,
though a mist rises in my gorge, is this it?
a statue sits in the courtyard of a city street,
eyes scrunched shut, hands pressed tight, kneeling
he never opens his eyes, never sees,
but even he knows
visions exist so beautiful that, if truth hides
another more resplendent sight, I may be made blind -
shush, I shush, and shush again the silence
it bellows in my mind and a fearful fire rages
in appalling quiet
is this, Elijah, what the wind-passing-God -
oh God, she's so divine - is like?
My heart begs the mendicants for spiritual alms
and mother God plays the accordion
while urchin Jesus tugs at her drab dress and smiles
where is she -
there is something here so imperfectly clear,
you must let the mud in the water settle,
if you want to see your reflection -
(I want to see the sky)
I don't want these eyes anymore, I want yours