Deeply
Squinting
Past his pitiable myopic sight
In a calling discovery
That mark
That gave the notes
To their song
The rhythm to their beat
And a boundless promised delight
Was
Slowly coming
To a new consciousness
He knew the words to their songs
He wondered… why?
He had not
Seen the bonded
Mark of his brow
His sight was so much better
When he was younger
Why now?
Yet he grasped it
And walked
Among one of
Their
Numbered tribes
Debora Short
http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-trail-2/
