Evidence of Things Not Seen

When you promised to make my brain sing color,

I jumped at the chance.

You were a painter of vibrancies,

inking trails to collect on debts for every

sunset stolen from your palette.

You said by the end of the day

pigments would echo through the cracks and canyons of my brain

like choir voices in stone cathedrals,

aching to harmonize higher.

I felt your fingers work their way

to my brain through my mouth,

painting new neurons,

little blossoms of intense pleasure on the brink of pain.

"I am an artist," your voice boasted through my throat,

as you lit my eyes on fire.

It wasn't until later, I realized

I was missing the glow from street lamps,

the light from true north.

I squint for neon exit lights,

trace map lines to guide me home.

There was supposed to be gold at

the conclusion of my colors.

I didn't bargain I’d be blind.

I fill an empty canvas. On it,

my hues will swell and echo,

mimicking voices in stone cathedrals,

haunting a God they do not know.