To gain the renge and sweep of those called, 'wise',
takes years of focus, savvy thought and drive.
Employing wits and muse, one must contrive
to forge a wing to glide through inner skies.
A self, steeped on vanity and false pride,
dolled up in face-paint, fashion threads and bling,
arrives at clubs, dismounts the hippest ride,
and strolls in like a missing queen or king.
Self-love is a disease that chains the brain
to trivial conceits. No Matterhorn
of wisdom waits to luminate the vain
twit egotist, whose glories stay unborn.
Like a black hole, vanity swallows light,
and ends hopes for enlightenment outright.