I wonder
How are we not able to find our way
In a world full of beaten paths and arched stairways?
I look up to see many faces standing before me,
All sanded and glazed over with their own pitiful story
But none of which can even comprehend or intertwine
With the single solemn novella that inevitably is mine
They're all the same
Ode to the yuletide desires, wishes and bearings
None that are worth a single moment of a hearing
Because what stirs within them is something grotesque and vain
Something that should never be spoken of again
They all look alike
Pity chasers, silent fools
Worse than their neighbor, always lose
Just step back and give them what they beg for
Drown in it, they will, and then beg for more
In disgust,
I turn, something that takes next to no effort,
Just to see another statue that smiles with eerie pleasure
How, oh, how could a soul be so disgusting and vile
I turn once more and run away to think for a while
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