All gaudy and grandiose,
Tightly hemmed with haughtiness,
Stepping up the curved staircase
leading to lustrous halls,
Thick-skinned crocodile
equally tempered in
harangues and soirees of life,--
the same demon walloping in mud for mating
or among the flesh of caught prey.
Even before he feels it,
guilt morphs into shame,
which is quickly covered with anger,
And anger has’n the driving force of his success,
The success as we know it and applaud it.
He has lost just little to gain much,
Just a tiny loss:
He’s lost the touch of life in his eyes,
His glassy eyes are no longer
capable of expressing love,
That’s the only little loss,
A loss at all,
if you think it to be.
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