The Watchers Blind Spot

I see the masks you glue on tight at dawn,
the filters stacked like armor, sheer and thin,
yet every crack lets what’s buried in.

You posture, posture, posture through the day,
a funny ape in borrowed royal robes,
chasing the mirror’s nod, the crowd’s okay,
while hunger, fear, and status pull the ropes.

But somewhere in the watching, I forget
that watching is itself a kind of mask;
the one who sees most clearly hasn’t yet
looked hard enough to know what not to ask.

And still I move through it without surprise,
no need to crown myself above the rest.
Seeing clearly doesn’t make you wise;
it just removes the comfort from the mess.

K.