Quiet and two faced apparel covering her so
swimming with fishes to pose for convergence,
receiving compliments from an old fool,
ah, the masquerade of these buffoons.
Eloquence?
Feigning it so , yet failing to achieve ever constantly.
Like poor men having wine tastes with beer pockets.
As pathetic as the caroling of drunkards on Christmas eve,
As redundant as the clamoring of a fading bald cymbal.
Ah, the constancy, the inevitability of two faces.
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Topic: Her Masquerade (Read 650 times)