A Hand Reaches Back, The Blindness Of Pride

Sometimes my wisdom must pull my pride back to reality and it asks me…

Have you walked where I’ve walked?

Have you tread where I have tread?

Have you seen what I have seen?

Have you bled what I have bled?

Dragging feet through the thick snow,
traversing the peaks of the highest cliff,
staring strangely at the dawn
as it took the day away from the bereft?

Where have you taken your time?
Oh my wise and splendid mind.
Have you walked through halls of portraits?
And seen those souls that you left behind?

Who do you hold up?
Who do you turn your face from?
Can you stomach a reality void
of those things you hide from the sun?

Do you seek things that make you fly?
So they would relax your dainty feet?
Will you close your eyes completely
so those portraits and your eyes don’t meet?

Will you take the hand that longs yours?
So as to share those things not known?
Will you see we are the same mind?
To see those colors the sun has shown.

How consumed you are with your sight
how blind are you to mine;
what you seek the most
long ago you left behind.