Braille

A blind man
Defines comfort
Not by letters written in Braille

But by the softness of his companions fur
Every single hair
Informing him that he's there
And that he'll be there
Until comfort from his memory
Never becomes rare

Wonder

The crunch of an apple,
A hint of a sigh
They wonder longingly
About days gone by

Instinct

My instinct cried wolf,
And I ignored him.
Their instinct cried bite,
So today is grim

Street-lamps

Twinkling street-lamps
Are gently woken by twilight,
The early evening's sky
Afraid of the night

Stitches

There they are again,
The first few stitches
Of my battlefront
Threatening to come undone
To unravel my defense
Until it falls away
Completely
And I'm forced to start again,
To pick up knitting needles off the ground,
Like swords
Or wands
And out of thin air,
And invisible wool
Tie the first few stitches
The first of too many
But somehow, still never enough
I haven't met the last few stitches
They always run away from me
Shy,
Uncertain of the unpredictable.

Night and light

I wonder what you see,

When you close your eyes at night.

What is unable to survive,

And must hide itself in the light.

The Temple

Most of the time,
You’ll find nobody here
But some of the time,
You’ll see somebody here

Perhaps a man, just like me,
Carefully reading the book
So many choose to ignore,
Without offering a second look

I know the feeling,
I’ve known it a while
You see, not ignoring me,
Is permanently out of style

Written as an interpretation of this photo by Timothy Robinson. Check out the real story by clicking on the photo!