All the world a stage – and everyone a player,
Poking and prodding for their existence.
Friends are false, and niceties rend weary.
For a friend’s worth these days is fickle, their presence but a trickle.
A tisket and a tasket, with nothing left in any basket,
When you’re all full up, there’s nowhere left to chuck.
Hilarious creatures these roamers, who will puke on your floor but ignore your opus,
Give help in a hundred ways but one.
The one you need the most.
And so you curl inwards, alone, and rot.
They all fail to come when your last seeds are spoiling, and the cage is almost empty.
They shine like false gold – bright when you are golden, transparent in the dark, and everything is a lark until it isn’t.
Fair weather they say, never staying more than a day.
And you crave so much more than blue skies.
False gold is everywhere, and indignant when you claim it to be so!
We’re fine! We’re normal! It’s YOU who are broken!
Yes. You are. But for lack of any truth or love.
And an anger at their self-pity, when they fail to be more than witty and half as deep as their wallowing.
You are worth so much more than a hundred tonnes of fool’s gold.
But, there are no interested buyers.
False Gold.
