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    Blind Poet
    Blind Poet
    Blind Poet
    Ebook26 pages14 minutes

    Blind Poet

    By Dean Wesley Smith

    ()

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    About this ebook

    The poet sits on the sidewalk, a fedora for tips in front of him.

    He hands out poems to those who can see.

    Some read his words one way, others another.

    And some can't see his words.

    At least not at first.

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherWMG Publishing
    Release dateMar 10, 2021
    ISBN9781393227076
    Blind Poet
    Author

    Dean Wesley Smith

    Considered one of the most prolific writers working in modern fiction, USA TODAY bestselling writer, Dean Wesley Smith published far over a hundred novels in forty years, and hundreds of short stories across many genres. He currently produces novels in four major series, including the time travel Thunder Mountain novels set in the old west, the galaxy-spanning Seeders Universe series, the urban fantasy Ghost of a Chance series, and the superhero series staring Poker Boy. During his career he also wrote a couple dozen Star Trek novels, the only two original Men in Black novels, Spider-Man and X-Men novels, plus novels set in gaming and television worlds.

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      Book preview

      Blind Poet - Dean Wesley Smith

      Blind Poet

      Blind Poet

      Dean Wesley Smith

      WMG Publishing, Inc.

      Contents

      Chapter 1

      Chapter 2

      Chapter 3

      Chapter 4

      Chapter 5

      Newsletter sign-up

      Also by Dean Wesley Smith

      About the Author

      Chapter One

      He looked like I used to look: Shoes polished just right, blue three-piece suit with the correct button buttoned, hair stylishly short, combed up and off his forehead.

      Empty.

      He would never see my poem.

      Even though he had sight, he was truly blind. His body was nothing more than the bare walls of a pure white room. He needed to fill that room with the battered furnishings of a real life, then live there.

      He needed to push open that room by cooking his best meals, staining those white walls with layered smells. And with each meal he needed to invite someone hungry in to share the smells and the tastes and his company.

      Then, and only then, could he fill that empty room.

      But he hadn’t.

      He would never be able to see my poems. He was

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