IA image
and truly believes he is,
but he's merely a little puppet,
a slave wrapped in bliss.
His happiness is fine dust
scattered on the wind;
a mirage inside his fragile mind,
born of tribal din.
Cruel jabs disguised as kindness,
cloaked in robes of peace—
beneath the shining surface,
he stings just like a bee.
He serves only his hive,
obeying one central will:
the pull of slender strings
that guide his every swing.
J.S.
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