Monday, April 24, 2006


Each day, the blind man walks
his remembered path,
turning as he has ever

turned, pausing where he
paused before. Those stars
that guided him now move

in darkened mirrors, in nameless
constellations, lost
promises of night.

And all his mirrors sing
their tarnished prophecies
into a dream of dawn.

Stephen Brooke ©2006

Yeah, I finally wrote something. 'Bout time.

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