The Fabric.
The mouth runs dry
In a spew of profession
False questions of why,
With slight regression.
Dance in the now, they say.
It truly matters not.
And the shame of how,
Will all be forgot.
Our minor crimes are lost
In the shadows of great deed.
And will absolve us all,
Of our pettiness and greed.
Stand straight when it suits
And sway with the need.
The end justifies the means,
But still the means to an end.
The fabric breaks at the seams,
Just like their crooked smiles bend.
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