a rumour looking in

he clung to shadow
as the lame will cling
to the stick

shunning the light
and the centre stages
he was a rumour
more suggested
than known

from the edges

he said

I can see clearly
back-lit and bright
everything is open and sharp

where
under the spot
I am a frozen thing
engulfed by the dazzle

in the shine of the sun
that glaring hard stare
I am blind
I am nothing

it was only a voice
that was muffled
and when it had spoken
was gone

nothing remained but dark corners
and nothing to show
that he’d been there
at all


© Frank Prem, 2010

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