The swirling mist condenses.
It clouds my eyes and mutes the colors of creation.
My paintings are never to be completed.
My life’s work now nothing but a haunting memory.
Her retreating form becomes a blur of motion.
The golden tones of our candlelit nights burn to cold blackness.
Nature abuses me, I reel under the weight of its sentence
And I have done nothing!
My heart soon dies from losing the loving light,
But anger propels my body forward in a mockery of courage.
And the cane taps so loudly, but not loudly enough
That I cannot hear them say, “Doesn’t he handle his blindness well?”