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 wrong.

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,
As if to say, “Doesn’t he handle his blindness well?”

"A Mockery of Blindness", copyright 2009, by Stephen Sanders.