Blinded

Blinded
by Keaton Foster



Upon
The edge
Does he stand
Blinded
Said man
In his hand
Nothing
In his heart
Less
In his head
Porous lesions
Infected regions
A mangled mush
Of ideas dreamt
And promise
Not quite kept
To himself
And all else
Blinded
In such a way
To such a place
He did not travel
He was brought to be
Carefully placed
Willfully
Made to face
Fate
At his feet
Destiny
At his back
A choice
Does this seem
We all will make
Blinded
He cannot see
What is real
What is not
He understands
More than most
But explores it
Less than all else
He is no fool
But nor is he
Defined by brilliance
All that he knows
All that he won’t
Is abundantly fake
In a world made real
By the plight of seeing
He has never known
Beauty or splendor
He plays the game
All the while knowing
For absolute certain
That he has lost
He does not cheat
Nor does he set out to win
He is indifferent to
And because of the idea
That a life
Even one as his
Is supposed to mean
And be something greater
Then all else
He is immune
To the words we lip
He cares nothing of
The sound we spill
And the truth we bleed
No questions
Dare he ask
No ideals
Does he share
He is alone
As alone is
And has always
Been meant to be
Blinded
Love he has not
Hate he does not know
Pain he cannot feel
Joy he won’t allow
Himself to believe
Who or what
Took his sight
Matter’s not
Why or why not
How come him
And not any other
Matters least of all
He feels nothing
Of the pain of seeing
Or of the concept
Of understanding
Blinded
So be it
Upon
The edge
Does he stand
In this way
He was placed
Brought to face
What he can’t see
And what he has been
Forced to face
Fate it seems
Is not without
A certain degree
Of irony…




Written by Keaton Foster Copyright © 2008-2020