The Irony Of Sight

I met a man who claimed he could see
He named everything he touched
And called it knowledge.
Yet the blind one beside him
Walked without names,
But never lost his way.

We are taught to hold certainty
Like a staff in the dark,
Yet it is certainty
That teaches us how to stumble.

The child asks why
Until the question breaks the room;
The elder answers because
And calls the silence wisdom.
We measure truth in conclusions,
Frame it, hang it, defend it
Only for time
To return as a quiet thief
And rearrange the walls of meaning.

A man spends his life becoming,
Climbing the fragile ladder of self,
Only to arrive at the top
And discover
He has been carrying a stranger.

We fear contradiction
As though truth were a straight line,
Yet life speaks in circles,
Repeats itself in unfamiliar voices,
And hides clarity
Inside confusion.

Even sight deceives
For what is seen
Is often what is assumed,
And what is assumed
Is rarely what is.

So we move
Not forward, not backward
But deeper into a maze
That looks like progress from above.

And the greatest irony?
The moment we finally understand,
We no longer have the language
To explain it.