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.