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.

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