Saturday, June 20, 2015

The Blind Writer

Your hands enveloped in mine, we walked the path,
Fresh it shone lush green, the dew reflecting the skies,
The tiny drops glistening on my fingers passing through the blades,
Tiny razors so prickly yet not as serrate as thorns,
The sounds of birds chirping high into the trees,
The earth bathing in the first rays, a warm haven,
All the colors racing away into the curtain of darkness,
Your hands on my shoulder lead me away,
I settle down as the first drop tears down my cheek,
My fingers running lightly, treading slow yet smooth,
The words etched into paper, stored for life and eternity,
The hues combining on paper, the aroma emanating,
The soft chuckle, the brush on the cheek, the rustle of a dry leaf falling,
It all comes together, painting a picture so complete,
My eyes are held in yours, yet I don’t know what I see,
The darkness may be true, yet it all has more to it,
This is all about what I don’t see now, just because I am now a blind writer.

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