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The Cloak of Decency

 

The enemy I see moves slow,  

their hands soft against their spine,  

their smile folded into a crease,  

as if carved from sweet wax.  

 

They speak of virtue with honeyed breath,  

their arguments polished, spit-shined, firm.  

Their eyes a crystal calm, a pond,  

reflecting doubt back into my skin.  

 

The cloak they wear fits perfectly snug—  

a tailored armor of righteousness sewn.  

Its threads whisper in the breeze,  

a fabric woven from straightened lies.  

 

I watch them gather the room, feast  

on trust, licking the marrow clean.  

Their decency hums its quiet hymn,  

a hymn that silences every scream.