A Blind Man with a Pen

Dawn breaks on an open field
as I rouse myself from sleep:
the carnal-perfumed pasture,
the wolves amidst the sheep.
A vulture glides above me,
there are likely more of them, as I
make my way beneath slate-grey skies
in this land of stones and serpents’ dens.
In my time I’ve been a wanderer
roaming here and there and more,
and on my road I’ve seen the toll
of greed, and hate, and war.
As a child I dreamed of flying,
I would soar above my bed,
then off into the magic realms
that beckoned to me, far ahead!
I didn’t know that sparrows fall
nor did I know that stories end,
I thought it would go on and on
or at least I wanted to pretend.
How bright was my desire,
far brighter than my fear, yet now
the urge to seek, to know, to travel
with the wind, lie squandered
like the morning light
on a blind man
with a pen

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