Poetry

This lamp is always shining, 
It has never abandoned this dusty room.

The room is quite the size, though.
It is thirty kilometers and half a mile with three-quarters of a centimeter long, 
And nine feet and thirteen yards with three cups of width.

The lamps shines dimly in the vast blankness.

It's a dark flame that burns atop.

Not a black one, 
Just dark...

And hanging upside-right sideways from the wall, 
Stands a man with crippled hands.

He's said to have lost all his senses at age two.

But somehow, in someway, he manages to feel the heat from the lamp;
He also sees the reflection of the flame's ember along side the cotton walls.

But I see nothing...
I feel nothing as well...

He points towards my left and horizontal point-of-view;
I am still unable to spot this "lamp".

He grabs my frozen hands, with his crippled one.
The texture feels abnormal, 
Even to me.

I follow him, 
Unconsciously...

Then he holds my face, 
I stare at his blank eyes, 
And hold them in place.


The image strikes with the power of a fist, 

There's still nothing, 
Just the cotton room all around.

I feel him though, 
He hasn't left yet, 
Not that there's some kind of exiting door anyways...

Maybe I'm the blind one, 
Maybe I've lost everything I had that was never in my possession, 
Or maybe, just maybe, 
I have forgotten to open my eyes...