Painter, prisoner, blindman

He looks at the canvas
A dirty white,
Waiting to be covered in
An infinite number of colors
He dips the paintbrush
In a cup of thick paint
A shiny midnight blue it is
He paints the sky
The blue sheet he has never seen
And closes his eyes trying to picture it all
Slight white traces of paint
The clouds he imagines
And golden yellow stars
The midnight blue
Dries as the sun sets
And the darkness outside thrives
Then he rips the canvas apart
For what he just painted,
What he has never seen
A constant reminder of
The past he doesn't know
The shreds of painted cloth
Land heavily on the cold stone floor
Of the prisoner's home
The tiny ray of moonlight
Which creeps through a small invisible crack
Lingers on that midnight blue
If the painter had looked closely
He would have seen
The tomorrow in his painting
But he doesn't
For he sees nothing
Not the stars that shine
The moon that lights the world
Or the sky that protects it