I have often heard the sky is blue and how the grass is green,
But I haven't got the slightest clue as to what that's supposed to mean,
No, I've only heard the stories of a sun shining bright.
You see, I was born into the dark, never to know the light.
I know birds by their songs and trees by their shade.
My fingers run for miles on hills artificially made,
Painting pictures in my mind of things I never knew,
Looking for some insight, searching for the truth.
But all I see are the missing trees and those who make no sound,
Ghosts of my own making, look at what they're taking, never to be found.
For insight is like hindsight, save for the looking behind
With empathetic lies to try and sympathize with a man born blind.
Yet I have smelled the color purple, I have heard the color blue,
I have tasted green and yellow, and the combination of the two.
I can feel the color orange like the warm late summer breeze,
And the pale blue of the waters in winter when they freeze.
To walk by faith and not by sight is so much easier for me,
For I once was lost but now I'm found, am blind but now I see.