A Sentiment Like Hephaestus

Falling

Welcome to the world of the forsaken,
Where the pretty people are too cachet to look at me,
And the ugly people are too indie to converse to converse with me.

Now left to my own quandaries I lose this effete grip on sanity,
Forgetting the status quo of human behavior,
Unable to cope with the pallid comfort of faith
Or the dissatisfaction of the secular.

I palpitate as I’m placed on this pedestal,
Not for repute or veneration,
But for the sake of this derisive cruciation—
This emasculating mockery—
Which satiates your masochistic cravings so fully.

Inebriate yourselves to the dance of my throes,
And partake of my elegiac pageant—
The constitution of which you are incognizant—
And declare your camaraderie with your back turned.

The veracity remains stolid despite the attempts of this whimsy:The gelid soul feigns compassion he craves to experience,
But there is no love to pump the heart to life,
And so nothing to give, nothing to offer,
And nothing to receive.

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