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Poem

This tale is true and mine. A world 
Of wonder and color surrounded me 
Long-ago. Bliss, fulfillment and freedom 
Dwelled by my side. This picturesque planet, 
For a person who renders it useless.

Me: an inmate imprisoned in darkness. 
Colors bleed out in streams of absence
As blackness seizes their thrones.
Pictures, paintings and murals are consumed
By infernos of midnight flames.
They serve no purpose. Stripped from 
Their homes, oh how the walls stand naked.

Books: letters, burst with ink. Flooding 
Pages in wretched shadows, leaving them
Handicapped within this nightmare. Mirrors: 
Oh how they no longer haunt my approval, 
For my existence is not within them.
This reflective world is so foreign. As I
Do not perceive it. Gleaming light bulbs
Nay not be ignite, as they do not
Illuminate this gloom.

I see the night within the day. 
Emotions through sight, dead, they now lay.
For I see nothing, but feel everything 
Before me. I’m lifeless, but living.
I shall not exist in a world
Of wonder and color. Only
In a world that is four out of five.
I shall exist in touch and in taste.
In fragrance and in hearing, but blackened
Shall my eyes stay
For its been too long since they’ve gone away.

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