Wanting
Two hundred walls, walls of eyes, stone
roots lazily devouring the senescent remainder;
how the mighty have fallen, so close sunward
but so far earthly: when the waxen lips
might melt you find an accidental down-draft.
Your lame still hear.
Your deaf still talk.
Your blind still walk into walls,
the invisible walls of eyes,
judging every move.
Let the mighty hand move,
let him inscribe the sudden blindness,
let your closed lids form the mad letters:
weighed in the balance
and found wanting.
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