Egomania
The self
is but a wicked dream
that lifts you high
to let you fall.
"Inflatable", men call such boast
that stretches the imagine
so to propel the I
to heights unknown to none save "me".
A bloated thrill is I
whose bubble bursts too soon,
fading into the insignificance
of a splat of spit.
Why do we flatter ourselves
by raising pompous sails
to catch the wind that blows
in the doldrums of our self-esteem?
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