Frivolousness
The scorn of all men, looked down upon by those who are esteemed. Worn away like the fist imprinted, dusty old sandbag beside the place of barbaric brawls chipped away like the paint on moldy tenement walls This is humanity! Everything luminous is a mirage The false, yet alleged, but still false Knowing our destination, we wander still Having all of our provisions laid before us We wander empty handed Boundless is the trouble of our misdirected fury. Written August 29th, 2001 © on Feb 11 2002 05:47 PM PST 10 • 0 • 13
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"The scorn of all men,..."