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A man that sees nothings, knows nothing, and refuses to believe in anything. |
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 |