A Fantasia / Aphantasia

Born with a veil draped eternal over my eyes,
To shimmering visions of sun or clouds I rise.
And though colorless, my hills and valleys,
To rescue me from the blackness, my senses rally.

‘Tis his face though, that I conjure up the most,
For he’s the beacon of light in my dark, dark world.
Eludes me still, how I fell for him, being unromantic;
I guess it was his crystal clear thought, that clicked.

Subjectivist, high on emotions, in my art, I go;
For my objectivist, will find me, if I get lost doing so.
When these hands tumultuously attack the canvas,
He bestirs them, slicing through my soul’s fuss.

Mistake him not for being icy though, my friend!
For his passion emerges in words from his pen.
Though I wish, his exactitude would tone down somehow,
A fantasia, the only one, I have nursed for some time now.

***

Think of a face you love, what do you see?
A flurry of countenances would occur to thee.
I know they’re not there, but you see them lifelike;
I can’t. Now for a rare aberration, prepare your psych.

My friend, blessed are you with eyes’ and mind’s visions.
Alas! I, for the ethereal, mental kind, have no provision.
You see faces with closed eyes, of those who mean your life,
While I hear a dry description in my voice of my wife.

It’s funny how I have imagination, but no imagery.
Conjuring up visions, sounds, smells – to me is sorcery.
The exactitude of words, thoughts, helps me in true crime,
However, a victim of it, my lovely wife has been for a long time.

How it pains me, to a romantic that is my wife,
Giving her visions of love and passion is a daily strife.
This unnamed condition remained thus far unuttered, in her presence.
Aphantasia, it’s called now. She deserves an explanation; I, penance.