Light could not have dwelt there
Surely there is an empty chamber
Where his heart should be.
Yet he thinks highly of himself
His cold impassive face
Hides his feelings of grandeur
His contempt for those he feels
Are less than he is.
Yet in the scheme of things
He weighs nothing
Not even worth a slight
Movement on the scale.
He is minute, inconsequential
Bordering on non-existent
Yet he walks on air
And you wonder at the source
Of his self delusion.
My other poems can be seen here: https://moolashore.com/blog/
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Photo by Annie Spratt on Unsplash