This isolation isn’t blessed with anything you’d
consecrate as worthiness, more an antigen for
misconceived believing self-esteem’s the same
as popularity, or admiration is acclaimed to be
what you have deigned to rate, suggesting it’s
a lauded guess at least acceptable to you; oh,
golly gee, to rue the choice when it is voiced
delusion we engendered into truth
aggrieved by silence which you used to see a
foil for useless noise; the harmony it wrest of
conflict now besets a choice of chord - & who
could rest discordantly at peace attested with
such mordant lack of modest empathy
© 23 September 2013, I. D. Carswell
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