Patterns of Truth

They form their own collective society in the sky. In the distance between one tooth and another brushing past the dentally doctored, or subtly manipulated by our own sugar desires. Succeeded by the lowest common denominator, in bitterest weather seeking solace and cover. They walk moon shined arm in arm in the breeze. Gripping their hats with their elbows and toes flirting in absent mindedness or certainty, still mopping their brow with a damp cloth. Surpassed by objects of hollow indignation, buying substitute tickets for surrogate shows. They laugh uncontrollably and cry with vigor at the face in the mirror that reflects what they need. Throwing bread not yet stale to fat pigeons, pouring wine not yet vintage that will always taste bad. Assuming that assurance is insurance - one step down, mistaking conviction for courage if they could be believed. They hop, skip then trip into flames of ice, meandering helplessly on a round robin whim. Charging batteries with assault of recollection, or gently thrusting paper into a broken washing machine. Hopefully set free by the churn of the blender, fragments to keep us all together in atonal hymn.