the brain, in it’s arrested state, is simply wasted mass.
numbers flood in, overwhelming in their absurdity,
never quite measuring up; always weighing in too high.
and vanity, a manic compulsion, is product of our deepest fears.
    >> we are best;
                                   concealing our worst <<
resolve flows with such a heavy distortion,
while our bodies are, unbeknown, feather light,
but we hold steadfast to rituals of self deprecation and denial,
along idle attempts to appear as a sound conscience.
   >> we are best;
                                   concealing our worst <<
we hold our vices close enough to choke on,
pollution deep in lungs and livers, while we slowly decay.
the only thing within distance to our starving body,
at least, all that counts as substantiality.
  >> we are best;
                                   concealing our worst <<