I cannot say that I’ve grown wise
through all my passing years.
Yet one can surely win apprise
with open eyes and ears.
I see ego garbed as majesty
blurting nonsense called opinion
and hapless pawns of travesty,
misled by such dominion.
Then pride, that common drivel,
pours like rain into my ears.
Heralding the frivol—
playing on our fears.
Wise and precious minds
soar higher than the rest.
Overlooked, disparaged and maligned,
shame they’re oft suppressed.
By wise enthralled and fools appalled,
these two of diverse kind.
How is it then they’ll be recalled?
By what they leave behind.
Copyright © Mark Peterson | Year Posted 2017