The Blind Painter

and I watched him closely
as he painted
not what he saw
with his shrouded eyes,
but what he felt
with his empty heart,
as the canvas came alive
with unnamed colours
to fill my senses,
and his broken art.

Blind

and I realised
when I was with you
that my world
was not dark
and devoid of colours
that I could not see
with my own eyes,
but that I needed
your eyes
to see
your world
in mine,
and
my world
as mine.

In The Blind

I once crouched
in a corner
with my face
buried
in cupped hands,
terrified of
the tidal wave
of darkness
swirling around,
blind
and deaf
to the sight
and sound
of my own heart.

Today,
I am still
in the blind;
yet stand up
with my feet
planted on a
shifting ground;
I cannot see
where I am going,
but I can feel
and hear
my heart singing;
I can touch
darkness
and feel its warmth,
while I hold on
to that thin
thread of trust
in myself
and life,
which I know
will guide me
to where I need to go.