It is the Blind Man Who Truly Sees

Every other storm passes by;
A timid raindrop for every little speck of
Hot Concrete. Overburdened;
Witness to the living ingrate who devours
The essential, thrashes the bones;

A graffiti of footsteps
Disappear in the oculus
Of the one-eyed king’s slave.
Every other storm is an excess
Of hell; A dislodged fulcrum;
But indeed, a mirage in the desert
Of Sun-schorched avenues
And kindled nerves.

But even as the bipeds walk,
the fire dances to a dissimilar beat.

Ode to the increments of back street!
A song engulfs your echo
Of a sky that falls back into itself.
A parade to the pace of a million smiles.
Hope becomes vision.
Vision becomes truth.
A version of Truth comes to light,
And smeared shall the next storm pass….

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