A poetic composition for a lazy Friday afternoon (in two parts):

By Willy

When you are young your eyes shine bright;
they focus like lasers even at night.
While myopic kids have to get their eyes tested,
yours are always relaxed, clear and rested.

Then in college headaches start to arise;
the optometrist confirms the problem's your eyes.
“You're a bit farsighted, or hyperopic.
It's quite an interesting visual topic.

Your eyes have to work more than they should;
these mild reading glasses will do you some good.”
For years the glasses work quite well;
you wear them when you read for a spell.

But for distance they really aren't required,
although your eyes do start to feel tired.
And then, at 40, in a dimly lit venue,
you find you cannot read the menu.

Presbyopia is what you are told,
and this diagnosis leaves you feeling old.
Stronger glasses are going to be needed;
your close vision is worse, it must be conceded.

For a couple of years the new glasses work fine,
though you always must have them when you go out to dine.
But your bare-eyed far vision is still very clear
—or at least much better than your near.

Then you look down the hall where a sign is hung,
and you wonder, could I really see that when I was young?
As I stand here now all the letters are blurred,
but my far vision is good—this is absurd!

That night you're reading on the train,
and even with glasses it's a bit of a pain.
The magazine is too close, the print is too small;
but without your glasses you can't read at all.

You put off an appointment because you know what comes next,
even though you're still struggling with small text.
You find yourself squinting when driving the car.
Is your vision worse now at near or at far?

But finally you accept your fate,
and your progressive lenses sure work great.
You see better than you have in years;
no more eyestrain, no more tears.

The only problem that you can find
is that now when you're bare-eyed you're practically blind!