Covet: To wish for earnestly…

When I am me, bereft of thought,
I am so much more me than previously.
Frustration is simply a word unused,
meanwhile the soul becomes more abused.
Scattered among all the debris
of a life mismatched with the likes of me, 
who am I to recognize,
when I look around with tired eyes.
There’s really no one here who cares at all;
empathy and indifference litter the hall.
Was it all a gallant try to gain your trust,
or one more measure of languid lust?


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