What a false image you portray…
Those smoke and mirrors are a perfect shade of gray.
Your playfield of mirrors cover everything in a perfect guise… leaving no awareness of where any boundary really lies.
Inward moves your words heavier than the morning dew. O how they lay low, O the damage isn’t few.
Each and every syllable, falls amongst us like moss. And what a great ending you leave; a heart thrown with O such a toss.