His disguise had been perfect,
these fools with every moment falling deeper,
allowing him his undercover way,
a hidden agent, a sleeper.
He fed them banality and watched them squirm,
skewered between the pain of wasted words
and the pointless victory they could earn.
They still had fire, they could still burn.
With every moment such as this,
he dampened the flames of precious life.
He cut away the magic
with a blunted nothing knife.
So they thought and so they dimmed,
Copyright Faramond Frie © 2015