The saddest, faintest man that one could meet
Is one who hides within one thousand faces,
Who thrusts a hand, forces himself to greet,
Then turns to whispers, leaving not a trace
Or impression of gravitas, whose glee
Comes not from his within, but his without,
Who crouches deep in personalities
That cast his star in night, and fosters doubt
Towards the luster of its glossy shine,
And smugly sneer that no heat radiates
From this suggestion of the high divine,
This one so forcefully ingratiates
Himself that he is now but a shadow,
We are aware of him, but do not know.
June 13
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