I write what I see, Because I am blind. I write what I hear, But I am deaf. I write what I feel, But paralyzed. I write what I smell, In my burnt nose. I write what I taste, The only sense left, And thank the day, Because it can be worse.
. . . . . . . . . . . . Snow kisses the sleepy mountains, draping them with sheets of white. Flakes drift down into the vales, jewels sparkling in the full moon light. A simple crystallised drop of water delightfully whirls on a gentle breeze, alighting softer than an eyelash kiss, to find a home upon the trees.
Catching every glimpse of beauty that is what holds me steady, Misunderstanding and under estimating the quantum possibilities that these eyes see through time and space I face the endless darkness that can hold any man steady. Dealing in disappointments or is it pointless to call for change, A feeling so strange like being on center stage, The darkness so bright I can see nothing, I can feel nothing, I am numb am I here.