Blind hearts.

The blind man
Across the street
Sees more
Than the men around him
Who won’t lend him a hand.
He feels objects
With his fingers,
His ears,
And his anticipation;
And wonders more often
About how beautiful
This life is.
He knows no difference
Between red and blue
And yet tells his daughter
That she looks beautiful
In that black dress of hers.
He thanks you
For every little thing
Because he knows
Gratitude
More than you do.
He doubts himself
More times than not;
But he knows how to
Trust his gut.
He is blind,
And he is across the street.
A street you’d only cross,
If you were blind too.


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86 Comments

  1. This goes in my record as one of the most beautiful emotions committed to words.

    He knows no difference
    Between red and blue
    And yet tells his daughter
    That she looks beautiful
    In that black dress of hers.

      1. Yes, I barely open wordpress anymore, let alone write anything. A lot has been going on. But I am trying to make some content out of it. I think you will see me more around here now.

  2. I enjoyed reading this poem.
    I lost the majority of my eyesight at 18-months-old due to a blood clot on the brain, but can still discern outlines of objects (not their details). So, for example I can see the outline of a person but I wouldn’t know whether I knew them unless they spoke or identified themselves in some other way. Having said that, I sometimes make educated guesses. For instance a colleague always wears the same perfume so I know when she approaches my desk in the office that it is her.

    I do, I think concentrate on senses other than vision (the freshness of the air, the scent of flowers etc).

    Thank you for writing this.

    Best wishes – Kevin

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