The Fear of Being Human
A trace of pride pulls him down,
the good man never wears a frown.
No sorrow felt, no grief, no pain,
at the final hour – what will remain?
No joy to laugh, no smile to show,
what love is like, he’ll never know.
No urge to doubt, no flame, no fire,
no wrath, no rage, no dark desire.
One fleeting moment lifts him high,
yet blinds his heart, he can’t know why.
Above himself, above us all,
so naïve, he takes the fall.
His mind reveals, but not the end,
the good man fails to comprehend.
He looks into the mirror’s face,
but finds no features, not a trace.
Surrounded by the crowd’s delight,
with joy and fear, with dark and bright.
Suddenly he sees it clear,
a tear escapes, he falls from here.
A trace of hope, a fleeting flame,
what makes him good, what earns the name?
He hides away, withdraws, is gone,
afraid of being human, alone.
First wrath, then hate for all mankind,
but most for self – the trap aligned.
The pride, unseen, had sealed his fate,
it barred his soul, it came too late.
At that one hour, before the trial,
what truth remains? What is denial?
The court declares, the sentence told,
with judgment bare, yet harsh and cold.
The good man now at last does see,
the mirror shows reality.
The joy, the love. But now too late.
He sits enmeshed within his fate.
