The floating, drifting patterns that
encompass all of us,
the things that enter in our mind
which no one will discuss.

The man who wears the different cloth,
who’s teased about his taste,
when in his broken, shattered state,
he feels the pain, debased.

What virtues doth this man imbibe
to warrant such protest?
Is he not just another man,
a fact I will attest.

It is not him who carries us
to sinful days and times,
but you, who stick to your old ways,
the primeval soup and slime.



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