a man’s path, always
observed, by those who love,
and they who calculate the
fall lying in wait.
to gloat, jeer, and
compound the hate.
minions who dwell deeply,
revel loudly with
voices pitched perfectly to
salt the wounds,
sway to and fro to feast on
woe.
so sad an assembly, all
eyes peer downward,
having no courage nor tack,
so vile their gazes
dare not meet.
tread soul-less creatures,
alone in conceit,
no pairs...just one on one
replete.
theodore miraldi
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