My voice inward turned whispering accused,
“Of pride, thy counsellor, I must speak,
A subtle haughtiness in thee is embedded,
That the gate thou must perforce break.”

A dismayed alarm rose from within, 
A crowd of voices, mind, heart and physical
Cried out hurt in unison,
“Oh, wherein here pride where twilight is all?

Draws one pride from glorious penury
Or from mind like a new-born take title?
Is sorrow’s barbed crown worn lightly
Or brows that brood upon breath futile?

A bankrupt heart grow bright cause
Or barrage of stumbles turn medallions,
Oh to such malformed reason give pause,
For not a sliver of pride is in these ruins!

But ah, if a hint of pride there must yet be,
He elects me His perennial fool, and that counts surely?!”