Unlikely prophet,
what vision has engulfed you?
what blinding light bore you?
Where did you walk
after you vanished?
and why,
on your return,
you have no power to speak?

Your eyes are glazed,
your fingers have aged:
you wish not to know the time.

Will you hold my hand?
can not you teach?
or even preach?

Take whatever penalty is the price;
take me to the unknown known land,
and return me with my knowledge twice.

Or do I know your shadow
moving across my visions?
Is that suspicion of self
flesh and bone?
Is that unused percentage
really hard at work?
Is that your starring image
on the lake of dreams?
Is that your haunted voice
captured in the valley of echoes?
Is that your suspended shadow
in the fog of the peaks?

That is your hand in the mirror.
Those are your eyes in the sun.
That is your vision in my skull.
And these are your footsteps
in the dust of my life.