Fresh Veins for a Chameleon
The con man wears a greasy, porcelain grin
trumpets like a swan but the soul of a raven.
From paper mâché pulpit. he'll surely sling
thrice tainted blood drops passed off as gems.
His compliments are marbled with plastic
spray painted over in fool's gold
from your bones he whittles drumsticks
his words are Luke-warm but the heart rattles cold.
Simply, he's flaccid and just fancies attention
a little imp tugging at the locks of his fantasy.
Wait long enough and the porcelain cracks
leaking out a blackness and horrible stench.
When exposed he'll suddenly slink away
but rest assured this vampish chameleon
will re-emerge and sniff out a fresh vein.
Copyright © Anthony Biaanco | Year Posted 2024
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