The fog of fellowship blurs every
hairline crack and fissure webbing
the heart’s candy shell—proving,
yet again, that feelings are amoebic
in nature, and not to be trusted.
Like liquor, they peel your throat
and leave behind a burning uprising
of shame. Even you, accountable to
no one, will answer for your aimless
laxity sooner or later, leaving us
awash in your purple velour humility.
But we will not be brainwashed by
the wine you pour, that ancestor of
greatness whispers truths in our ears,
even in public, we are the good guys
And we always win.
(c) 2017, by Hannah Six