The pilgrim on the road to ruin
for to see the wholly see.
We only hope the look will be
worth the wait (Be it understood,
we do not stand in line).
But our vision is cloudy and dim.
We know not if this be some new halt lately come,
or if it be consequent upon our foolish gaze
into the vast black sun.
At any rate, we tap on, caning our way
towards some end or other,
where we may at last lay our
burdens down.
Look – (so to speak)
If it were easy so then should
all be so crippled.
Remember, only the healed made
it into the record.
The others simply crawled, rolled, or just fell back
into the dust,
Its gray chalk teared into the loser’s must.
Yet from this sad vintage may some new cru arise.
Every harvest is iffy.
The hands who move it along are the ones
who bring it to fruition in whatever guise
it may in the end become.
The vintner, if blest, may turn even
the whoariest gath’ring into
a pleasant draft.
And tiply are such libations savored.
The blind are blessed in this odd way:
Being deprived of one sense
the others are heightened,
So that in the end, who’s to say
who’s more attuned to what’s what
and what’s not?
poetastrophy 