Pseudo Ramblings Or The Inner Eye Poem by Not Long Left

As a child I regurgitated my inability
to verbally express myself onto the
blue carpet of my bedroom floor.
Mother would stumble through the
darkness, and lift me into her soft
pillowed arms, consoling me until
my desire fell sleepy and I drifted into
a world where nothing was understood
yet everything always made sense.

Now there is no pillow to press my
head upon. Instead I search the streets
watching the leaves swirl in frantic circles
as they strain to flee the invisible walls
that contain them. I wait with the elderly
at bus stops, for they understand the
importance of time, yet are so slow to move.
And here we stand, watching and Waiting.

I am the lighthouse with the broken beacon.