The tragedy of being blind
Is that we are blind to our blindness.
We seek what is not there
Misread apathy for kindness.

But when we shove those
Tendrils of hair out of our eyes
Our vision clears up so sharp
That we see blue and skies.

But what to do of those
We leave behind in darkness
Do we show them the pigments
That hide behind prideful heartlessness?

The clouds that threaten above them
Do I fly back down?
Will he fly up with me
Or pull me beneath the ground?

He who we talk about in past tense
In the present, is another self.

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