Their proud snarling faces with curling lips
Smile at me with their contempt
So vile so subtle- it is death
Their pleasantries and small talk
Sting and strike me at my very core
I cannot speak their language, their double speak, their lies
My tongue struck dumb like Echo the Oread in their presence, only able to repeat their last words
Their interest lies within themselves and does not extend past their up turned noses
They drink in the delicious stench of my squirming taciturn (muted) agony
My pain burns unquenchable-the smoke fills their nostrils
Their eyes aglow with the power they have over me
I would welcome the sparks from their pain like twinkling lights
Their deaths would not provoke in me the tiniest sympathy
They are wooden-hollow.
They are like me?
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