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The cold, once the dichotomy of suffering

Burrowing its way into the hearts of man, these toxic obsessions of finite possessions

The cognitive dissonance you wear so well

Like a blade of honor, on the sleeveless cloth, man of the cloth, its very fibers which hold the world at bay

The two faces, once thought of as a symbolic representation

Now head-on, it won't look us in the eye

Embarrassed by what we have always been, though our egocentrism feels like this narrative is something more than it is

One hand on our purse of possessions, the other hand holding a gun in our mouths

Passing parsimony, the split-open, cracked-lips and distorted heirs