Blind Retreat

October 12, 2011

Wilting prose

Graced the facade

of fading grey headstones,

Marking rows of memory

And a little misery.

I make my way

down neural pathways,

But the cane is just a prop, a sturdy assist.

The tapping sound reminds me

of what I can not see.

Whispers of

grandeur echo loudly,

without a sound – only slightly better

than what we had

supposed.

—-

The Night

shakes its head

And goes

back to

sleep.