I’m lost in gathering the mood- The tongues speak of praise- And achievement- The wine glasses raised and cheered- Isles of smiles- Pearly plastic teeth, glistening as the moon hangs- Above this false room- In hushed tones, and wandering eyes- Am I the wound they speak of- The heretic, the silent tragedy- In a casual conversation- A mere comment in a digest- Of ones who are not mirrors- Of themselves- Where ever my fingers lay- Have they felt through them too- Never would they want too- And never would I convey my truisms- To them- They’re honesty is the cloth they wear- The shoes they buy- And the fashion they style- None of which I prescribe too- I’m not a fad, a trend, a midlife crisis- Somebody told me- The brain if just used and not experienced- Destroys the mind- Rest easy though- I’m never your peer or colleague- I’m your adversary- This is what is called- The Gentle Art of Making Enemies-Birth sign: Libra
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