They attempt at change.

They have lied, deceived, stolen, coveted
Avarice and amour propre bleed into them
Their souls are fragmented seas
A number out of seven sins drift across them.
We looked at them and judged
Expert fabrication might have been what we saw.
A whiff of innocence, a child’s gift
A breath of fresh air, an open book
A friend’s trust, a fragile concern
A smile of encouragement, a proud look
Turn their eyes inwards, or maybe not
But they might will the shards to stitch together
They could try and keep hold
But the make-believe needle, the traitorous threads
They give way at the first jolt.

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