Loners tell
Deliberate rambles
To make us lend
Our time
Losers fumble
Each opportunity
They’re given
Freaks lack
The phony friends
We’re used to
Goners sell
Their souls to
Each briefcase
Passing by
Devils write letters in our heads,
God never answers
Truth be told,
Each of us is just
A fabrication
Torn by
Time’s knife
We all exist
On a plane
Of very
Thin lines
From flower
To the tombstone,
Our existence
Is marked
By
Ignorance
If vanity had weight in gold,
Then we’d be rich men