To the Writhing Mind

The flowers of spring sprout,
A dash of colour amongst the grass.
The pink blossom dances in the breeze,
And the birds sing through the clouds.
Above the tall white mountains.

Yet one may be blind to such beauty.
I seethed amongst this scene,
And slumped against a tree.
My anger seeped through me
An incessant drumming of my fingers,

But I realised later, once I returned,
That my breath could be stolen,
By such a stunning visage.
It was then that I shed a tear,
For once I had yearned for difference,

Surrounded by the difference I yearned for.
Like an actor in a tragedy, I was blind,
Corrupted by my experiences,
Not trialed by them.
My fingers drum a different tune.