Burning

You paint your halls with greed and you flood the rooms with lust, defacing any proof that there is good inside, but only when no one is looking.
On the streets, the trails you leave are gilded, yet they reek of unfathomed guilt, begging all who pass to interrogate you of your dealings.
You trek from place to place silently, desperately avoiding eyes until you're safe behind the will of your masters, who beat you daily with tedium only meant to bar you from furthering your own ends.
You are blind to your failings and overbearing with your triumphs, and you smite any who accuse you without a second thought.
You are human.
A single cell of the calamity that has broken my spirit.