Laces of torn underwear

Most of us young are slaves to lush dreams,
Old servants to regret, Masters of disguise to the world around,
Yet, shameless laces of torn underwear.
Grateful souls to the leftovers of the greedy, by being a shoe print in the bread of the needy.

Buried by the evolving desires of the slender mannequin;
Address her to be diddled, like she’s done being fiddled.
Unaware by the sinking toys at park bay.

Lead into the life of rapacity even though it lacks the capacity,
By being the stalker of the impeccant infant,
Knowing that he may step up to be the adherent.
When you get to he top, you get air headed when you look down,
Like you’ve forgotten how you climbed the ravel:
This is when the journey becomes less travelled.


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