There was a man I knew, his roots were firm,

Planted deep in the soil of honest days.

He worked with quiet strength, his heart unspoiled,

And all who met him marveled at his grace.

But something shifted in his steady gaze,

A spark of pride began to burn within.

At first, it seemed a harmless, fleeting flame,

But flames, untended, grow beyond control.

He tasted praise and drank it as his wine,

Each word a mirror showing what he craved.

In time, he saw himself through clouded glass,

His virtues stretched to fit a grander form.

He thought himself above the crowd below,

A man of sharper wit and clearer mind.

The simple souls who dared to challenge him

Became his targets, struck with poisoned barbs.

Sarcasm dripped from every word he spoke,

A weapon forged to wound, to leave no doubt

That he alone stood right, unerring, wise—

And all dissent deserved his cutting scorn.

Anger, the guard of pride, stood at his side,

Ready to strike at any slight or doubt.

And cockiness, a bitter jester’s grin,

Mocked all who dared to question his ascent.

The man we knew, the one who warmed the room,

Was gone, replaced by shadows of his pride.

And those who once had called him friend or kin

Watched helplessly, their sorrow heavy-laden.

He rose too high, yet never saw the edge,

The cliffs of his own making, steep and cold.

And when he fell, no hand reached out to save,

For who can grasp a shadow turned to stone?

It saddened all who knew the man he’d been,

The soul of quiet wisdom, gentle care.

What greater grief than watching light grow dim

In one who once had burned so brightly clear?

He thought his strength was proving others weak,

But strength is measured by the hearts we lift.

And now I think of him and wonder still,

How pride can blind and lead the soul to fall.