What I Cannot See

What I Cannot See

What I cannot see may hurt me.
I might stumble, tumble, fall and
so reduce myself to ashes
set afire, then doused by splashes.
What if I would look around,
see things lying on the ground,
stepping high because I spy the
little things that pull me down?

What if what I cannot see are
things that come from inside me,
do the harm and tell the tale?
What to do to keep from failing?
Listen to the words I’m saying?
Notice how I stand, relaying
thoughts I meant to hide?
Watch the arrows in my speaking
hit their targets straight and streaking
in a way I can't abide.

What I cannot see eclipses
sunlight, good deeds, time immortal.
Splinter in my eye prevents me,
blinds my vision with pretenses,
blurs the lines I live between,
straight the plumbline never seen.
Pluck the mote out from my pupil
that earth’s goodness I may glean.