The world has a taste

The world has a taste — 
Which is why it exaggerates.
Stars flicker like cigarette burns,
the moon grins like a cracked porcelain plate.

Clouds leave their ocean,
mountains stand there, breathless,
and the sun, that old dupe,
burns itself out just to stay bright.

Flowers tear open at the seams,
colors bleed out for attention.
Every bite and every scent
And everything I could mention.

But I wonder — 
If you had no eyes, Would the world be the same?
Or disappear without a name?