The Blind Artist

At times I am an artist,
Painting with broad strokes
And quick dabs and jabs,
Carving the world to my vision,
And slicing the image of my will
Across the canvas. 

I paint blindly, at times—
often, really—
blinded by how I would see the world
Were it colored as I wished,
Without regard for what lies
Already painted before me. 

In the fever of my frenzy
To establish forth my dreams
Sometimes I paint against the grain,
Against the contour of the canvas,
Against the current of the river and the wind,
Against the flow of what should be. 

When my vision finally clears,
Then at last I see
My brush, my words, my hands—
All I use to forge forth my reality—
Were merely just a sword,
Thrown 'bout haphazardly.

I open 'gain my eyes
And see the world I marred for what it is,
And tears of fiery regret
Well up form deep within.

I see the world torn and burning,
Sliced asunder by the dream
Of a self-blinded man:
Seeing, but wouldn't see,
revising with his brush-turned-sword—
revising selfishly—
And as my eyes are truly opened,
I see that that man's me.