He sits quietly behind the glass pretending not to see me.
Although he senses my watchful eyes in all there curiousity.
In all my girlishness I peek foolishly at the new presence in the once unoccupied room.
His eyes dont shine in boyish wonder but with a lost sorrow.
His face is marked with wrinkles and an antiqueness beyond his years.
He stares, catching me off guard, as our window reflections become one.
Gently frowning he takes hold of the wooden stick,
his map, guiding him from my sight and out the bedroom door.
Such a rape it is to be left Blind.
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