The Blind Painter

There is a part of me missing There is a part of me that shall never be Inside of this dark sad brooding mind Is the painter who will never see So I take my pen, and vaso of wine I contemplate I get lost in the drunkenness of time Stooped over my own memories on a sour palette I had the brushes staring at the naked breast My paints were frozen, at such beauties unrest Erect and tall, at her feet I did fall The blind painter, who lost it all So now you see I am a poet of some seedy sort Painting Braille, is poetry of my last resort I write down words with the flourish of my pen The Braille poet, cause painting I could not fend I take words and wish them bountiful explosive colors If only I had talent, a painter and not a story teller So for me, in pain and clad in the cloth of sadness I write words, for this painter has only Braille I have no painting brushes I possess no smile, wandering along on wistful miles Of blindness, blowing in the winds of the frail No map for the future, and yet I set sail Hoping my words one day will be seen By an artist who paints the soul and the serene She takes my blindness and paints boldly my dreams Taking my words, from Braille to bright pastel creams