He seeks reflections
In shadows on walls
expressions induced in others
sounds of praise
to clarify
his current illusion of
who he is

Are there mirrors
Clear enough
To find
A vision that
might become different
might be clearer

Don't regard
me a poet
I'm not
perhaps never
to qualify
as one-
a solemn truth

still swimming
in the sea
of words
often struggling
to keep
my head
above water
to escape
drowning

so
don't call
me a poet
I'm only still
a weaver
of sentiments
a learner
from the Masters
a lone traveller
in the desert
in search
of self
to place
myself
right in
fitting words

yet
I despair not:
it's enough
to have
into such
ventured

guide dogs they are special and are very kind
spending all there life caring for the blind
they become there eyes so they can get around
and a special friend in there dog have found

help them cross the road when its safe to go
they are trained that way so they always know
picking up the mail coming through the door
moving any objects lying on the floor

a very special friend gentle and so kind
who dedicate there life caring for the blind

No
I don't know
as you think
I do
I've hardly started:
there's the river
but its water
doesn't flow
and by its bank
I'm waiting
perhaps
it might tomorrow

no
life is my
not yet
it will take
many, many more
years before
I really
come to know