Each day is the same.
I wait for a knock on the door,
someone calling my name.

Away from so much,
unsure of what comes next,
I sit in a room that is vacant.

For most people, memories are solid,
steady as trees.

If I were lucky enough to share this fate,
I would do anything,
even grab and wrestle bees.
I would share my time with blind men,
reading anything they would need.

Trapped in a bunker
that rarely shows light,
closed behind doors, solid as stone,
the blind perch themselves carefully,
listen to every word.

We know for sure what is real.