Sanity is a fickle lady
Who gives of herself sparingly
To those whose desperation leads
Them to choices of a darker shade.
Even as she heals the abandoned
She more oft casts her spell
Through the space left by Her absence
Wherein lies your illusion
Of complacency and arrogance
Living amongst those who disdain her.
Her balm is ne'er dispensed
For the seekers of self gain
At others' expense,
For She knows the weakness
Lodged behind their puffed facades.
Do not wait too long to revisit her
Resolute in Her spartan garret
Which causes you such revulsion.
You will never find comfort
In the festooned halls of power
Which draw you uncontrollably
To overshadow your self-loathing.
But to accept Her is a choice
A sacrificing of all frontispieces
With their blank, separating pages of effrontery.
She left them in tatters long ago
By her own choosing
Devoid of all feted renown
To reside along the less-trodden banks
Of a newfound river named Humility.