Thirty four

This malicious incongruity
Polar divides in space
Sedated to pass the time
To forget that which we cannot replace
Buried in the sedition
Of what is, and what is not
Sick and convoluted
Remembering all we forgot
Self righteous indignation
Or so we come to believe
There is what should be coming
But instead there is what we receive
One of six and six of many
Thirty four in total to be precise
I played my hand and lost the game
And so I shall roll the dice
All in, the last I have to spare
That in itself is an illusion
Hidden from the eyes you see
Very much like my self delusion
Bipolar, no borderline
With a side of co-dependency
Anti-social, histrionic
Or rather, sociopathic, maybe?
Let’s place him in a box
With a lovely big lable
We shall all have dinner together
But he can’t sit at our table
Let’s talk with the others
He can stay in the corner
We are so happy we all think
Yet he is the eternal mourner


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