Slivers of silver thread
are winding about the shadowed column;
perfect illumination,
but no eye to perceive it.
From a distance,
he approaches,
cape draped over hunched shoulders,
bowed head,
shaking hands
clutching a silver sphere.
Stumbling towards the column,
he lifts his eyes -
they perceive the Light,
but his heart,
leaden with lassitude,
can no longer believe -
not even the once-trusted Sight.
Falling to his knees,
he tosses the sphere
into the Darkness;
he collapses,
never to rise again.
He does not see
the sphere roll to a stop;
he does not see it
at the base of the column;
he does not see the sliver of silver
as it bends down,
cradles the sphere between its fingertips,
and Sees the Light within.
He does not feel
himself being polished;
he does not feel
himself begin to glow.