This poem began somewhat biographical due to aging eyes.  
It took a darker turn.  What else can you do with an unruly poem but write it?

I have imaginings trapped inside my mind
Yet, I fear that I may be going blind
Because lately this is what I find
I get bleary images and flashes of light
I try to focus with all of my might
It is no good, you know, it became a fright
No matter how I try, I can't adjust my sight

I said to them, in answer,
It can be that way with small-minded people