There’s a man of deception in our midst
One who sees another's joy and claims it as his
Feeding on people's past pity and the attention they give
But can you even say that he lives?
If so it is at very best second hand
Surviving by scraping the boots of other’s plans
So called friends are only means to an end
Markers of time in the hourglass, potential gains, grains of sand
But in the end all he has is himself
A miserable man in a miserable shell
And at death’s door no one will hear his cry for help
He’s forgotten how to use his own voice
For his voice in life had been stolen from someone else