Wrung

by KQ

I might be glassed, paned,
Torn into confetti,
To sugar wilting happiness.

I might be classed, stained,
Born into apathy,
To spoon golden flatterers.

I might be numbed, dumbed,
Scorned into humility,
To skim eloquent treachery.

But remnants of dignity
Warn of conformity,
Risk to rescue residue stuck

In a bottomless soul
That perhaps still hosts
An unstolen, selfless spree.

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