Blindness

The flower shop: the smell, just as he pays:
He has to close his eyes to see the light —
For pressed and blurry are his current days,
As life transitions to a sort of night

Wherever he can see, he stops to gaze;
Whatever he can feel, he tries to write:
A search for color in a turn of phrase,
Of love that soars and flutters as a kite

But all of it is tangled. It’s a maze.
And whether hazed in gray, or black, or white,
He cannot strip away the ego glaze
That keeps him from the truth, albeit slight —

For blindness isn’t new to him, it’s just
Accepting it
                            and living as he must

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