There is a pattern to my steps.
Along these dark urban stairs I climb steeply to a park nearly in darkness. I arrive with my escaping breath. I rest. The pattern returns to my resuming steps. These deceiving eyes see dancers. Some say it is dangerous to walk this park at night. But I see not danger, but those deceiving dancers in elegant dress. I'd dance too, but I am tone deaf and nearly blind. What a place to rest, I think. To close my olden eyes and twirl like Fred Astaire.
LIFE OF A POET - JOHN BUCHANAN
10 hours ago