Over time, a plethora is acquired by a single man,
The type of things the world perceives as factors of perfection,
And yet his joy, locked in sorrow like fruits enclosed in a can,
This generation stands in awe of something needing correction.
Intellectually, he is labelled supreme,
This premise brings the assumption that his world must define bliss,
This gleaming admiration, for him, only a dream,
Sadness and he inseparable, as a man and his mistress.
A mask of joy he wears, to hide the actuality,
He wishes to find truth in the world's blind thought,
Even in this apparel, disdain lashes with brutality,
It then casts its net, and he is once more caught......
- Michael-Shane Brown