Birthed into a world of silence and darkness,
Damned from all that we know and relate to;
All that would be known was that of touch and smell.
Fingertips prancing across a line of indents
Tell of great tales and adventures
But none of it can be fully understood.
The scent of nearby roses taunted the senses,
A smell of beauty… unrequited to the eyes,
Yet vengeful toward the grope of reaching hands.
The dark red stained against the smooth white petals
As the hands gingerly handled the only beauty they knew:
The only beauty it can truly sense
That of a rose
