on a bench near an alley
under the glow of a burnt out street lamp
in that one city
way over where we don't know
sits the legend of the blind man.
his rust-colored coat clings to his frail arms
a tangled beard acts as a mask
from them and their judgments
not that he cares
he hasn't cared about much in awhile

in the pulse of the dark
that might as well be day
the wind dances on his lashes
a flutter of encouragement
to the tired set of eyes
his lids open slowly
like an abandoned door
to an unspoken realm
exposing him to the lights
sounds become louder
the colors more vibrant

no, a miracle this is not
a mere acknowledgment
of what he had all along
a thousand words of captivation
going down the avenue of illusion
caught in the glimpse of the midnight breeze
he lifts up his head
and sees the spirit in the sky
living, breathing in the stars
and the moon so far away
yet now in his grasp.

if only i knew, he thought
as the first tears leave his eyes
an art he had long ago forgotten
i could have told him, he admitted
what its like to open your eyes
and see beyond the superstitions
of the world stuck in a blender
maybe he would have lived
maybe he would have chosen to stay
maybe he wouldn't have given up
maybe he would have seen the light too
too late for maybe's.