And following the trail you left behind,
Soon after, will the lines of time,
Wrinkled, tangled, become smooth?
Of course they would not.
Should not.
The path you found was full of light
And nothing escaped your vivid sight.
What you beheld was time, beginning its course,
Running through your body as does the wind.
And as you walked and tripped and stumbled,
And began to lose your way,
The sun, continuing its inevitable cycle
Of live and die and once again,
Began to dim.
We walked through darkness,
You and I,
My unsteady feet mimicking your own.
We took the No. 11 bus,
As you always said, while looking over your shoulder at me,
Staying on your own two feet,
Keeping me upon my own.
And did you often think that soon
We’d reach, together, the door hiding the magnificent sun?
Wicked sun.
I grew impatient, while exhaustion consumed my satisfaction,
Of living blind, and so I ran ahead of you.
Far ahead,
Bent on reaching the door before your searching eyes
Could ever take in its relieving existence.
And here I am.
Here is where I am seeking out the door
To lead me out of darkness
And into the light you and I both sought,
One time, together.
And so, here I go
Lost in the woods of time.
The lines of time,
Wrinkled, will never again be smooth.