A Stranger

the fingertips which touch you,
the eyes, you gaze into,
these are not me,
I,
an orphan,
deserted,
darkness laps at my feet,
I see across the abyss,
can move both arms and legs,
and even,
roll these eyes,
still so distant,
both soul and body,
do not fit,
mismatched,
a freak of nature,
or prophet foretold,
time passes,
the body ages,
and these eyes grow dim,
yet here I remain,
an orphan,
darkness lapping at my feet.

 

Douglas Polk


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