Blind

Through your eyes there are only shadows,

Or perhaps there's nought at all;

It'd like to think there's something,

But the chance is rather small.

Imagining can only get

My mind to think so far,

For it's small and quite imprisoned

By memories turned to bars.

But still I try to wonder

At what it is you see,

When five is turned to four,

And five can never be.

For me where there are paintings

Of colors that sparkle and shine,

For you there might be ripples,

and impressionistic lines.

I'd like to think there's something,

But my arrogance implies

That I am trapped in seeing,

And will never know through your eyes.