ON
BECOMING BLIND
Darting,
skirting, ripping apart,
my eye’s
excrement floats
into a
tunnel
blurred and
distant.
Left alone,
I watch
from the
darkening caverns.
No longer
do colors,
shapes and
faces
invite me.
Instead, I
reach for the senses
once
ignored,
using them
with an intensity
understood
by the humbled and
savored by
the determined.
The
subtleties of sound, smell, taste and touch
permeate my
body
as life’s
fragile hands once again
caress my soul.
Beth Good--1987
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