Mankind sold its dignity
for the comfort of neutrality, long ago.
In exchange, we received wool;
wool of disparities,
with which some fabricated coats for themselves,
while some crafted blankets to share.
The blankets worn down, torn apart,
while the coats lasted for ages.
In the end, nobody was truly able
to fathom the comfort of the wool,
and the illusion of warmth.
This illusion we live in;
believing our coats will retain forever,
or our blankets will spring nil.
It’s only a masquerade
we fashion ourselves with,
while we painfully shiver in the coldness
by virtue that was never
in our grueling pursuits.
Yet, we feel warmth
by the wool that endured
not the temperatures,
but us,
the ones stretching it.