I can see you, but you can't see me.

There from victory protrudes the fine line between
confidence and pride, illusions can grow from the
most subtle of seeds and be planted by the most
deceitful of Hells host, the Devil and all
the faithful kin of treachery.

They learned during their fall, the ugly truth
of free will, whose justice is blindfolded seeing
only faintly through the fabric. Change can be
so sweet a part of choice, in the right light,
though monstrous in the dark.

Mocked would be the philosopher that only means well,
and seeks only to push others into the light,
piercing the veils of war and times that test
those with open eyes, and stitch
the eyes that are still closed.

Do they know of their stitches? Or are they
too busy mocking the speaker with good intent,
who sees the stitches being sewn with barbed
threads into secretly weeping eyes as
the darkness only hides image?

To those whom bask in pride, you only season yourself
with the life blood of your very soul while unseen fires
prepare you for a feast foretold as a warning.
You fool yourself more than all around you,
as though tricking your reflection.

They weep in secret, for their cries are silent
to themselves until the doors open at last,
in the era within a lifetime that choice has no mask,
but an open mind, whose open doors are of listening
ears as the barbed threads fade.