As ingenuine as you are,
A most false star,
With neither petals
Nor sunshine,
Still, you consider yourself
As pure as gold;
A steel screw consumed by rust
Which marvels at the glistening mirage
Of it's own reflection.
Yet you are the mirage
Neither here nor there;
A subtle deception
Which offers an open palm
Of dust and thorns,
When I cry out
From a parched throat.
So let the glass slip
And the shards scatter,
Crystalline truth
Could only be inutile
To a mind so sightless;
Like one who seeks solace
In the heart of a war zone;
One who takes comfort in condescension.
