A blind man’s longing

 

Wading through life under sable waters
Closed in  
Insecure, at best
I finger the void in search of clarity
But the sincerity of the empty is perpetual
 
My blindness unclothes me
 
I am an artist’s blank canvas
I am a sculpture, unchiselled  
I am a scripture not fully written of this life;
my quill dipped in the tincture of venom
Black stains every inch of my fragments
and I am enslaved by the world this bastard paints
Darkness— in bold
My world writ of yearning

Inundation of hues in the parlour
And I can only feel them
they’re gritty
like a mislain swoon

Speak to me in colour

I want to sensate in the cerise that defines your lips
I want to breathe the carmine that spices your quips
I want to inhale the scarlet of your indiscretions
The crimson scold of hard-bitten lessons

I want more

Red is a cruel voice when life staggers off path
Red is the depth of the reel of a wrath  
Red is the lust in a bitter indiscretion
Red is the bite of the hand of oppression
Red is the liquid of life’s treasured kin
Red is a wisp in the breath of a sin
Red is the wanton; the filthy— impure
Red is the essence of a lover’s allure

Tantalizing fermentation of the umbra
My senses, immersing in rich, vivid inhalations
with an essence of sweetgrass and honey
woven on the vacuous loom of a blind man’s longing