A rash of distortions - totally vacant;
Seething in anger so horrid, contrite.
Banging one’s head until thoughts are most certain.
Forging a finish line - truth comes to light.
All that one worships, those glossy, fine schemes.
Can’t see that mission, which folks tried to share...
Wildness, silliness, shadows unseen -
Thoughts shape this new world, volumes so rare.
Married to causes we can’t view as stricken.
Grumbling tiredly, showing displays.
Seeking to offer a more plaintive aura -
Leaning toward poppycock, aiming more ways...
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