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