If you stay
you may witness the collapse.
Somewhere between mace and misery;
it sugary stings and clouds the eyes
falsely promising success on some level
never to be seen-
that's the misery.

But they stay
they always do.
Because even the slightest hint
any brazen indication of glory,
the mace stings sweetly and far-fetched.
Mindless pride past any recognized form.

Once called success
where fools rush in to share the lapse.
Judgment absent, reality astray
amidst all those ready witnesses
who eagerly rub their faces and pick up the pieces
of mace and misery In between.

So close to blind
while clawing through the thicket;
ivy vines covering crumbling brick designs.
Peering past vanity
through pepper scarred eyes.
So on ravaged hands relied
believing these lesions
could restore clear sight.

No self-respect gained or restored;
so overgrown thick and twisted.
It seems all old souls decay
while still seeking foolhardy folly
and strive never to get tangled
in wisdom, the web we all too soon
cast aside.

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