What blindness is this
That sees
The mind
Creative
On the page
Even where the ink
Is absent and forgetting?

For surely
I see the words
Formed perfect
On the paper
With these eyes
Of mine.

Yet others
Find
In the form,
Omissions
And lack
Where my mind
Has conjured
And bridged
And leapt
Across the cracks.

And if
In my blindness
I still see
Words fully formed
And correctly ended,
Then what
In the real world,
Beyond the pen,
Have I also
Made perfect?

What gaps
In reality
Have I
Fabricated?
What have my eyes
Seen
In the jurisdiction
Of belief,
Unreal to all but me
Who paints
Stencils and stained glass
On lenses
Through which
I look
In order
I might see
The things
I wish

Rather than
What is actually present.

© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015