Man triumphs in synthetic,
Prophetic in shallow eyes
Who want permanent disguises
So we don't know whose lie is whose.
And different faces
Are preceded by traces
Of medical marker and polished shoes.
You can borrow the sorrow I lend
When self-portraits past
Replace mirrored glass
And expressed emotion is only pretend,
Because you lost yours for a couple cents.
They are gods, but only in a human sense,
Molding plastic,
Holding souls,
Then letting go,
She's getting old.
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