Pushing through the flexible glass,
I step on shattered dreams.
Shards of opaque wishes prick my naked feet.
For once I realise I may be obtuse.
But to be, I must posses no insight.
I must be void of eyes that see into my soul and stretch my dreams.
To know self, man must behold self.
So nay, I can't be obtuse.
Like plain glass I have appraised my being.
I have stared at blunt hope, entwined with childish longings.
And intense despair birthed misery turned hate for self.
Man quietly loathes self.
Sitting in this quagmire of self hate,
I see the end. Darkness lays sheathed ahead.
Hence, this obtuse suspect looks from a right angle.
The lines well defined, I break.