I wrestle with an armoire of not…
Relishing in a retreat to the village of the damned.
The regalia of trash that surrounds me is not mine…
If I do not address it.
Lavishing self in the offspring of bling.
Often there is refuge as the, great pretender.
Like a misnomer headstone.
The sunshinning brightest on those we choose to not remember.
Long live, indigenous thought.
Long live, the great pretender.