These are the helmets that follow. In them, I see the few that I've loved. They smile at me with black, rotten teeth and teach to me what sounds like the truth of my existence: virtue for pain.
I can hear your chorus now. I know the chant; I've heard it before. Every second of every day you chase me. You doubt my sincerity, and make light of my troubles. Everything isn't fine. I'm not OK. The chorus finds a thousand ways to reach me, but stays willfully aloof. You observe long enough to see the pattern, and assume that my will conforms to your shapes. It doesn't. None of you stay long enough to see the truth in my patterns, but you sit and judge as if you have. Call my rumblings complaint and pity mongering. I call them notice; someday, they'll be served.
Until then, you can stay behind your helmets.
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