Life has many ironies,
A blind artist, me.
One day it will fade the lamp,
These myopic orbs, soon enough.
A fate unavoidable,
A fate cold.
But one I have accepted,
Though bitter, though cold.
And now I weave ink,
In blue and pink,
So that when the darkness comes,
The fruits of these orbs will light again,
The dark moon sky,
Of my dark moon night.
YOU ARE READING
Often confusing
PoetrySecond part to a muses musings because wattpad has a story limit. . . I mean an enthralling book of stories
