They give their Fakes and legs a shake,
And sob until their tears melt.
The only other sound’s the break,
Of distant mirrors keeping barbers awake.
Fake are People, Frenemy and deep,
But they too have promises to keep,
Until then they shall not sleep.
They lie in beds with ducts that weep.
They rise from their bitter beds,
With thoughts of madness in their head,
They idolise being dead.
Faking the day with never-ending dread.
With thanks to the poet, Robert Frost, for the underlying structure.
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