Blind Beyond My Years

Since in every man’s heart wilderness is a mistress,
     I wonder if society is as lonely without
     me as I was in its seas? · Drowning not to be noticed
     but to be freed. · A need to be seen, though bred into me,
     has no power over my hands, or my lips, or my feet,
     or my eyes, as the burning sight of a hermit weeping
     makes my final escape uncertain and stays my great mind’s
     execution of its master plan. · Finding my Self home
     sick like it’s the fifth of July, life phoning in its own
     cancellation, how feelings have a way of finding me
     when, in moments of self-imposed exile, what I question
     rewrites logic and denies explanation. · Taking from
     me that arrogance which conveniently blinds a man to
     the pain he causes, loneliness makes me oblivious
     to my inner nature’s own remorseful forces. · All but
     knowing the most primal of truths that, when you’ve committed
     evil against someone, you can never forgive yourself
     until by them you’ve been forgiven. · Apology will
     never be enough, ripping into time’s fabric a hole
     through which emptiness itself cannot pass, not until its
     silk ribbon fastens closed the wound self-denial opens.