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Monday, May 12, 2008

Third Eye

The gift is his curse,
he sees more than others see.
Only no one greets him as a prophet.
Who wants their fate exposed?

He’s damned to wander the edge
of humanity, Technicolor visions
kaleidoscoping his mind
as time sheds the skin of centauries
and melts into millennia.
He understands the past
because he was there, the present
has no consequence and the future
petrifies because it is now.

Clad in the rotting rags of survival
he moves from place to place,
through tundra and desert,
between Earth and universe.
He’s had many names,
been many people.

Sometimes the eye sleeps,
then he believes it to be dead
and laments like an orphaned child;
fears the nightmares will never return.

When they finally broke into his bed-sit
he was no longer there. All that remained
was a louse-ruined cassock and a white cane
propped against a solitary chair.