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.