In a room as dark as night,
An old man sat without his sight,
and longed for times when he had seen,
clouds and grass and all between.

He dared not take a step outside,
Fearing all his eyes would hide,
and so he sat upon a stool,
and could not see he was a fool.

For many years he sat as stone,
living all his life alone,
and dreamed of all he could not see,
beyond his door locked tight with key.

A world which there was naught to see,
Was not a world enough for he,
and so for long he gathered dust,
and at the world outside he cussed.

When at last his end was nigh,
and he knew that soon he'd die,
just one last time he left his room,
to feel the sun before his tomb.

And as he stepped on through his door,
his heart stopped and he hit the floor,
And what had caused his fatal fall?
He saw he'd not been blind at all.

This made me...feel.

Yes, I know that was weird. The weird part is that it made me feel so many different things. At first I was struck by how much I've missed rhymes, then I started worrying that this old man reminded me of myself. The ending was so something I would have said long ago.

So, bravo. You are not me and I am not you. Lucky you. And jolly good poem.

Angelia

Nicely done, Aeacus, I like the way you build up to a crescendo. Good job on this one.

Les

Aeacus,

I finished reading D.T. Suzuki's 'An Introduction to Zen Buddhism" this week and your interesting poem fitted o well into the state of mind induced by the little stories in there that at first I thought I must have read your blind man's tale in there, but I can't find it, so it must be yours...anyway, that must mean you did a good job with this construction.

Avanti and amo,

Peter

Once it was mainly the poets who first attacked the nazis and rednecks and fascists.
But now it seems to be a crime to do that?

[bestpoet.com]