I am not blind to the beauty
but like a paralyzed man
his bed a prison
unable to touch or taste or smell
only those things brought to him
or that, by accident, slip though the walls
of glass and steel and watchful eyes
that institutionalize lies
to their own ends.
the sterility befriends
those whose clothes tell a tale of wanderlust
in worn soles and frayed hems and dust,
dust of a thousand roads
some walked to the horizon
some merely tested with timid toes
like an unfamiliar water pool at dawn,
yawning a frigid maw to pull you in
and cramp body and soul.

I am not blind to the beauty
but bound to it.
The sound of it is like music to a deaf man
who can perceive the bass line as it shakes
the snakes from the foundations of a world
made of a necessity, a necessary doubt
of things spoken with too much conviction,
words used as truncheons
to beat down relevant inconveniences.
The luxury of truth is something few afford
in the discordant umbilical left to hang,
to dangle at an angle on the edge of cliffs
we once leapt from, unafraid of the consequences
of gravity and the pursuit of knowledge.
I can see it, eyes open or closed,
limbs and lips languid or posed
like posturing candidates for a title
I am not sure I would or should award again.

I am not blind to the beauty.
I am not deaf to the music.
I am not cold to your touch.
I am not tongue-numb to your taste.
I am not unaware of your perfume
as you enter this room
and leave a telltale marker to be followed
into Elysium, if I am willing to rise
from my chosen catalepsy
and wear again the patchwork pelts
and the mark of my station and office
to follow where I swore I would go
when the word was given in silent mouthing
from across the room but in plainsight,
for I am not blind to the beauty
as I plant my fists in the stones
and press upward with aching muscles
to fulfill that which is ordained of me.


copyright William F. DeVault