Life is a glorious web of conceit, of selfish beginnings, and haughty ends. Entering into this world we demand attention and pacification as much as a self-imploding dictator, and yet we know not how to speak. Screaming, crying, and laughing we make our desires known, but there lies the key... "our desires". Throughout our miserable and less than exemplary existence on this sphere, we act in pride in all occasions. Our conceit makes us as envied- as equally hated- and we join ourselves to like-level conceited persons, and interchange those quickly. And as our puny little candle is snuffed from breath, we harden our minds or lose them altogether. But I dare say there is some hope in mankind. A slight twinkle of selflessness. And yet as such life is a glorious web of conceit, of selfish beginnings, and haughty ends.
A lonely table A notebook Words written down there A poem of rhyme A wind through the trees A lonely breeze Pages flutter Night has come.
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