The Blind Man

A man of words he was, and words he was alone. For not only did the prison of his own mind so masterfully contain him, It did so effortlessly. Where was this cage? Succumbed to an open room was all he faced, The impossibility of escaping being the true keeper of the nonexistent key. This man, he sat, Sat in the shadows of what he thought he knew, Thinking on and on but to no avail. And watchers shouted to him, they called out from only a short distance, But alas, to him they were in a realm that he had no intentions to see. Time grew weary and they ceased their calling. His cloud of solitude, of the voices of negativity that only he could hear, Joyously devoured the life that could have been, Yet chose to waste away.