The whispering voices,
The soft-sounding chimes,
The hissing of serpents that slither and slide,
Under and over - around the divide,
Upon which the sighted found all of their pride,
I seem to see darkness and light all the same
And see only that which my mind’s eye portrays.
Great minds often clash yet small minds will not,
For there can be no discourse through blood – only rot,
I feel you, I see you – my eyes I need not,
My sight is the purest – fresh from the cot.
