• Wayne Perkins

Going Blind

I gazed into the darkness – as black as printers’ ink. I wished upon a shooting star – it doth protest, methinks. I wandered here, I wandered there – myself I was beside. Until at last, in painted glass – a sight for sorry eyes.

A wretched wretch who cursed the dark – “remove the mote” said he. “I was not born for suffering – my mortal soul be free”. He wallowed in his just despair – he bore the mark of Cain. He drank the cup, he spat it out – a dirty crimson stain.


He moaned and writhed in torment – unfair was his complaint. Woe is me, I have not sinned – for all intents, a saint. Life has been agin me – a tangled web of strife. The Devil knocked on heaven’s door – and handed him the knife.


I tore my ragged gaze away – and in the mirror saw. A sorry wretch, with face like mine – a melancholy bore. Ask for whom the bell tolls – it doesn’t toll for me. An introverted extrovert – with eyes that cannot see.


The sickly need for sympathy - my God, I breathe it in. To be stoic as the light fades – to my shame, that’s my chagrin. I ask the Lord, my soul to keep – courage for the end. Not a reed swayed by the wind – and maybe just a friend.


And still the mirror beckons – for vanity and pride. Every time I feel its pull – an Occam’s razer slide. The sky it comes a-falling – you cannot hold its weight. The night it comes a-calling – you can’t negotiate with fate.


From the depths of sanity – where demons may not tread. Dante lies, beneath the skies – with water and dry bread. And all the broken dreams of men – whose twisted souls are torn. They curse the night, with all their might – for light to be reborn.


The candles getting dimmer – a puff could blow it out. The sun is sinking lower – soon clouds will blot it out. Pick up the cross and carry it – dreams are getting real. The curtain falls, my final thought – it ain’t that big a deal.

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