Most of the things you’ve earned are worthless,
Bought on a whim
Or another’s indulgence,
Or forced upon you
Due to the weakness of a previous model,
And once imported,
And unloaded to the home,
They prove themselves so
By honouring the history of their condition.
And the truth bruises,
As much as it uses
Your vanity to shore up
The awful reality of avarice and its practices
And the mediocrity
Of your statutory rights,
When highlighted against
The fences of fortune and it’s burst certainties,
Whose length is everywhere
Between the options
You’ve been offered,
Except with her, who admires you from a distance,
And plies the wisdom
She’s been seeped in
To better greet
Your atmosphere of median self-confidence,
And once you know
The tale she’s told,
And closely hold its verity,
You’ll never merit an ordinary thought again.
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