How do the lessons go when the student is the teacher, too?
That deep self writes clues in poetry
using a dream world to reveal the truths of day.
I trace its verity around my mind—
a well-known pattern
that has worn a groove I can’t escape.
Still hoping for a new ending, I pace the same old trail.
They are a fantasy, my hopes,
I must be taught the facts in Braille.
The prompt word today was trace.