The eyes, colored spheres, open to the world but cannot see. The ear, resting on the side of the head, waits for sound but cannot hear. The nose, doing its best to capture the sweet fragrance. The mouth, preparing the speech...the words... The hands, how they blossom apart like flowers. Damaged senses are difficult to fathom. Strange how it is when realization hits. Push and pull, the muscles want desperately to heal. Remember a statue of monkey's time three? Now, survival is the most important thing to the senses unharmed.
They travel the world, blind, but looking and searching.
Searching for the life that the soul should be living,
looking to live in a world that is slowly dying.
Eyes, wide open, looking around without pure vision,
seeking for color, trying to make the right decision.
They strain and listen, but no noise reached them.
How can they have the experience of music?
How can they learn the melody of voice?
Ears to listen, to hear, to collect sound,
Trying to catch the slightly rhythm with deafness so profound.
It draws in our life, our oxygen, the very breathable source.
However, what is accepted is tainted and foul.
It crawls deep inside, decaying from the inside out.
A struggle takes hold, pushing for clean oxygen.
It truly is a treasure what is free given.
Pushing past lips to live, to unfurl.
But, no gentle comfort shall the tongue taste.
Its function nonexistent...such a waste.
Nothing sweet, sour, bitter, or salt comes here...
This sense left to rot...too much to bear.
Touching...feeling...exploring for hours.
Numbness is all that breathes upon the skin.
Nothing is alive...death residing within.
A caress of shame closes these blossoms tight.
No more power to be held, no more will to fight.
No thought of understanding if one does not have them.
No though of the meaning that is taken for granted...
No pulsing veins of pathways containing knowledge, fully appreciating what's been given.
How dull the creatures with such gifts are...
Until, forever lost...left in the arms of the dark.
What will is there left when full comprehension ascends?
What is there to do but continue on life's broken bend?
Nothing shall be taken for granted again, information coming in trails and bits.
As perfect senses struggle to find balance...
They leave themselves open to destruction and malice.
As perfect senses lose on main key...
That one is forever lost while the others battle to breathe.
For life before this defect came was perfectly easy.
Now, hardship ensues, making the victim cry out in frustration, tried and worn out from trying.
They wish to smell, see, taste, hear, and feel.
But damaged they are from within the days of birth...
The road to health too far...too much girth.
So, these damaged things shall all but fade...
Leaving the mess behind of sorrow and decay.
Now, all that's left are blurs of memory...
When they flourished with energy, working properly.
Remember how they couldn't hear, speak, or see?
It's a wonder what would happen if that were really true.
The senses cut off, not having a purpose, having nothing to do.
To live and exist without damage.
To grow stronger as time travels on and age becomes wiser.
What to expect then from the senses and their user?
How it is that when the ordinary is there every day...it's taken for granted?
Shouldn't such things be treasured and cherished?
But, such knowledge only comes from the wise.
This cannot come from a soul who hasn't experienced life.
Damaged senses...what a thing to think about.
Such wonder gifts the senses are...difficult to live without...lovely to live with.
But, as the day draws to a close and you have all your fingers and toes, everything winds down to a stop.
Maybe the mind gets filled with thought...with dreams galore.
Maybe the senses were never damaged before.
But, when the realty comes like a wave and crashes,
every thought goes back to the damaged senses.
The ear, resting on the side of the head, waits for sound but cannot hear.
The nose, doing its best to capture the sweet fragrance.
The mouth, preparing the speech...the words...
The hands, how they blossom apart like flowers.
Damaged senses are difficult to fathom.
Strange how it is when realization hits.
Push and pull, the muscles want desperately to heal.
Remember a statue of monkey's time three?
Now, survival is the most important thing to the senses unharmed.