A Blind Warrior

I am witness to a numb, dull golem who acts without understanding.

This companion of my memories is mute to me, his thoughts sit outside of him. He is empty of breath.

I press water from stone whenever I reminisce. Tears come and I recollect a happy youth, free from struggle. The sadness sits under the image, on the fabric of the projection sheet, and my tears spill out of that foam which conducts our reality.

I am cursed.

I am cursed by God for asking what it means to be a good man, and my punishment is to suffer all my days. I can’t escape.

Can you feel it?

Can you feel the earth spinning?

Can you hear the sun burning beneath you when you lie awake in bed?

The great mystery of my inner self vanished in the crucible of my ordeal.

Now the mystery is in the numbness I feel to all things, and the abcess where a rage of indignity and suffering had once cursed God and humanity in the name of a better world.

Where is the world I hope for now? Where is that bleeding warrior?

Now he is a poet who cannot see, and cannot remember.