Left Unknown

I stood watching a blind beggar

To whom this world

Is a magnum opus of his own imagination

Twisting, turning

Murmuring, smiling

Dead to the world

Alive within himself

What is going on inside him?

What is he dreaming about?

Hues of colour

Washed over patterns and figures

Or dreams of slowly succumbing to a life

Torn between cacophony and silence

What is going on inside him?

What is he dreaming about?

I probably will never get to know

Because I never waited for him to get up.