The Blind Man’s diary
He writes,
movingly in places,
about a purity of joy.
Like dawn sunlight
moving across the surface of a lake.
But then he wakes and writes, haltingly,
about terror, fog and steel.
About not being able
to decipher what’s truly real
in the blank facades of windows,
which never give anything back
except his own shocked reflection.
forgottenpoet 