Silly Man

A self-constructed glamour,
The design flawed in that it could only trick its creator,
Who wore the shroud so self-convincingly
He believed it to be his own skin.

Rip it from him
And expose his flesh,
All naked and plain like truth
And though it will feel as if he is being torn to shreds,
Let him perish from his own poison. 

He will be reborn as more of himself,
Each contrivance bringing him closer
And the skin he wears will be more like his own
Than the faulty glamours he insists on,
As he should know better, the silly man.

-k.r.r.