I once listened to someone say they were in the winter of their life,
and yet I find it questionable to which season I belong.
It should be spring, should it not,
though perhaps late spring at that.
None the less I find that I am amazed by too few things at present,
and wondered why that is,
until I happened on my damnable perceptions;
blind and deafened by personal reprisals,
self-directed and misjudged.

Fascinating that my mind inquires better thoughts than I believe,
yet bears witness to so many who so seamlessly portray my thoughts as if to give theatre a city wide gape within which to perform.
Realizing this I began to wonder if some others might perceive,
that they themselves bear this deaf and blind disease.

With some comfort I do wonder if we'll run into one another,
that our passing might create a tiny breeze, for if my senses that remain,
sharpened broadly just the same, then surely I would know there's someone there.
With ignoble deft conviction,
I'd stretch out upon my mission in the hopes that I might find a someone there.
More important than this mission, if you're touched by my convictions,
is to latch on to me strongly with a squeeze,
because I cannot know you're there if I'm prowling through the air with the tenable prognosis of my deaf and blind disease.

But the senses that remain will reward you with the gain of the sense of my compassion which is purposeful in name.
I have mastered Ars Quixotic,
ignoble though my methods may be while we're on the topic,
none the less are noble deeds for the tenable prognosis of my deaf and blind disease.
And so that this is clear since I have attention here,
I have no need for pity,
though I carry the prognosis of this deaf and blind disease.
What in Ars Quixotic means is the drive to noble deeds and a bit of dignity for those with deaf and blind disease.