The Blindest of Men

The future his sight held strong,

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the most treasured gift that eyes to him bestowed,

the contemplation of wonders and worries,

the king of his thoughts, no other can carry.

His past roamed his kingdom’s eyes,

and just like future held high a crown.

A past that sought him a story to mourn,

even though of mirth it could sing.

An eye that traveled behind and tomorrow,

to stay in the infinite search of the path to follow.

An eye that reached miles in time.

Eyes that could see more of what was behind.

And as the man gifted the future with time,

and worshipped the ticks that are not yet to be sound,

the man traveled higher for regrets, for remorse,

where the past and the future found to perturb his soul,

where the songs heard and foreboded seem to work in symphony,

conspired to scare him out of his dreams,

saw higher than mountains but never touched the earth,

saw all moments further and without,

the vision of a man to be called so bright.

Oh this man, oh his eyes that brooded his betrayal,

 that drew him feared frights, so he may never sail, 

for in the waters past the horizon blind to all men,

his eyes painted the cataclysm sure to bring him death,

painted the comings that were not to come,

a reality broken in the chains of a pondering glance.

A man so grand in intellect,

that could read the times of tomorrow,

sang of words and sang of past sorrows.

A man that eyes held all the pictures of years passed,

held all the schemes his master for morrow fights.

The gray he sees from far away,

but to his eyes, one time, present light sang,

and in his mournful watch of past and then,

he never set eyes on the sun that covered his days,

to keep him in the warmness of the winds of today,

for this, he was to be called the blindest of men,

though he saw from past and beyond,

never did he see the now that of him was so fond,

and just like that from his eyes

all time was gone.

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