What of proud reason where we see ourselves
Not as we are but as we feign to be;
There not unto true character to delve
Where truth discerned might drop one to the knees.
While in the harshest light of morning’s glass
We primp and preen the image we behold,
But of our inward self cannot, alas
Have any vision of that truly told.
Here then awareness reft of simple truth,
Save of sopped flattery or jaundiced claim
Assumes the bastard forms that we so choose
And in blind arrogance, our virtue name.
Blessed by a mirror, outward truth appraised,
But of the soul, what insight to dispraise?
© Loubert S Suddaby. All Rights Reserved.