A Sunday Morning

We never think we’re bad
We never think it’s us
Maybe just a little mad
But we don’t like to discuss it

Doesn’t matter that we’re haunted
By the things we’ve said and done
That we still live in the shadows cast
By former friends and lovers
And cower, cold, and shunned by others

It’s over, and over again
It’s the gaze of so-called friends
At wits end
At the wit’s end.

©1902, ThaumatropeMind. All rights reserved.

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