They dress in gold, they speak in sweet,
they promise crowns at weary feet.
A thousand voices, soft, untrue,
all clamour loud to bury you.
They shift like smoke, they bend like reeds,
they grow from want, they feed on needs.
A mirror cracked, a face disguised,
the world is built on layers of lies.
Yet hear them close and you may find,
their song is hollow, sharp, confined.
For lies are fleeting, shadows thin,
their throne is dust, their crown is sin.
But still they rule, for men adore
the painted mask, the easy door.
Till one small light, a whispered cry,
reveals the lie, and makes it die.
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