Ideals

Immune to an inner sight
Your face is not your own
Patience what they have teached you
To keep you complacent
This way you will be under the hand that feeds you

Coward
Your name a shame
Your fingers crossed
The blame is placed.

Precious nothing
Ideals

We mistake for beauty

The bearer of principles without value stands exalted and adored
The tongue speak words it cannot accept as truth
Bleach your sight and now rest.