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“The blind man next door”
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In the village of the blind,
The one eyed man is king.
His heathen intelligence dwelt,
His place it aways protected,
By the sieved shells like mass like sand.
No one will give him controlability.
He powerful than a weight elephant.
When the storm is coming to him,
He stand like a tour lights street.
He’ll remains until it’s disapearing.
It would be so:
The evidence of centuries remains.
It burns, the weight on this iris
The decadence consumed by the senses
It yearns, for change
A change for all around these fences
Of mine
I have kept the dirt out,
Why do they not emulate? I ask.
Dirt fills their homes
From ceiling to the floor.
They ask, are you not the man next door,
Who blocked the drainage,
and has caused this mess for us all?
Are you blind to your faults,
but stretch a finger to a problem; part of?
Are you up for change, when your senses lay fenced off?
Are you down to feel,
From your island of bliss
Where moat is brimmed of spill,
To eventually encroach on your heels?
Are you not?
Are you not?