Blind, bound, but walking.
Wandering, if not with dusty feet,
Then with fleeting thoughts;
A quick mind.
When age has written pages of his book
And wrinkled the spine,
He flies on the inside.
A cane in his hand,
Sand is like his skin,
Brittle like autumn leaves beneath footsteps
And thin, grim, grotesque,
But not within.
His mind: his treasure chest.