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Blind

What is it that we see when we open our thick eyes? 
Are we astounded by untouched beauty, or seared by caustic lies? 

But our eyes, see only what they wish to see
be it pristine, dull, or a stain, we strive to understand, unknowing

that a concrete truth is almost impossible to find, hidden beneath layers and layers of illusion
much like a gem is buried in stone, never shown to others, and lying alone.

Truth matters not, not in the game we call life
when a decorous portrait can hide the ugliest imperfections

in a sense an image is evanescent, and like a picture can be painted over and over
making those oblivious to the meaning behind the mad blend of color.

Some artists are wisened and know the game well.
But at the end of the day, you look in the mirror, and all you see is yourself

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