Tailor-made

United against our every undoing, succeeding to quell our extinction, yet fight amongst our common hands and hearts of little distinction.

With a finger of shame, we point and blame at showcased felons, and scorn. Catching eyes in the mirror, it couldn’t be clearer where the lies and deception were born.

And had we the time to record every crime or in-bred diseases of thinking, then sleep lay resigned, and seldom we’d find but a moment that warrants our blinking.

Fashion me, tailors, a social religion to taper me tight at the hips. But grant me illusion to make the decision of how best to lie with my lips.