Pariah

Sight is as fickle as the last dream before waking,
That which should be discernible may never be clear.
The visionless masses know not what they're lacking
And they cannot miss what they've never held dear.

A sculptor am I who still carves my own image,
The better for all the poor blind men to see.
So they may feel amity with the one stood before them,
With the junque at their side, a sense of camarderie.

Yet i remain the pariah, and know they cant see it.
With eyes tightly closed, they'll remain in the shade.
If doubt should plague them they'll gather together.
And congratulate one another on a game so well played.

And I'll listen to words that have ceased to have meaning.
I'll anticipate anecdotes that were told thrice before.
These blind are skilled mimics of something still living,
Their guises become so familiar, they wear masks no more.

And i wonder if i could stop hiding the truth from them,
And create a fresh history and yet believe my own lies.
And could i still become as complacent a mockery?
Can i accept that its time to just put out my eyes?

Eye Soleil Shone.

So the walls come down here.
The walls fall down.
Naked and quivering.
All fall down.

Singular being.
Psyche is screaming.
Reality twisting its knife in your gut.

Alone and aware of it.
No room for false memory.
Dreams and fantasy, fading to dust.

Alone then.
While lost in the crowd.
With their noiseless screaming.
As then turns to now.
Continue alone.
While pretenders surround.
Dead things still dreaming.
And I cant recall how.

So the tears fall at last.

The tears are here.

Long lost clarity.

All goes clear.