Alven L. Robinson
The Blind Man
The blind man on the bridge
groping in the wind,
a trail to the edge
pursuing light within.
No turning back the years
or pity for time lost,
regrets there were a few,
forsaken dreams the cost.
Somewhere along the path
his will had come to waver;
he lost what he had found
while searching for a savior.
Now he has no one to follow,
no refuge from the rain;
the days are as a field to wander,
each hour a guessing game.
His freedom from the shackles
of concurrence and consent,
denies the intercession
of robes that seek repent.
He knows no hallowed scripture
to stand alone above the fire,
no words of revelation
to escape a final pyre.
His blindness is the vision
that sees beyond the Word,
to the voice within the silence
of the sound so seldom heard.
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