No one can deny how great you are,

They can only grit their teeth in helpless envy.

You’re shining brightly and going far,

Not forgetting to treat the folks quite fairly.


You’re not a saint, though, you may slip,

Fighting for the right cause but wrong side.

It’s not always possible to take a firm grip,

On the chaos that constantly raging outside.


Thus, you’re forced to cripple your worth,

Crafting masks that don’t fit your face.

But if it’s done for the sake of the Earth,

Who can argue your inborn good grace?


No one should care that you’re bleeding inside,

They mustn’t see your oozing wounds;

Nor how many times you fell, nor cried,

Nor how lonely you felt last hundred moons.


It’s a glorious purpose, ungrateful burden,

That you perched on your mortal shoulders.

Not aiming for grand gratitude, nor guerdon,

Just wishing to move those bigoted boulders.


It earned you enemies, and mocking sneer,

You apologised but didn’t end your fight.

It doesn’t matter that your sun refused to cohere,

You will do remarkably with luminescent light.

8 thoughts on “Visualist

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