weary

graveyards full
of executed
hypocrites;
the world has
its ways of
gentle elimination;
cry a tear or
maybe three,
maybe half
a hundred thousands
when they trace
it back to me,
and i stand by,
cold, invisible;
or damn me
for evermore;
the ocean doesn’t
feel the rain;
a weary and
disdainful chain
of restless,
diplomatic pain;
occasional heartbreaks
remain of the
myriads of cracks
that spidered
stealthy over
the looking glass;
humanity was
never reflective
anyway.

T. E. Pyrus

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