A nothing sort of scent,
save that of the many people.
Perfume hangs in the air, a cloud
of impending doom and trickery.
Laughter low, with a gleam of teeth,
flash of mischief, with ill intentions.
The ruffle of knowledge, torn or lost,
portals to other times ignored.
Silent mockery, whispered comments
elusive like snakes, grasping at smoke.
Memory drifts in and around,
feeling peckish and lazy as cats in the sun.
The silent hunter, Sleep, striking quickly
when people aren't looking.
Fake smiles and faces kept up and
maintained like mansion gardens.
And all the while, the one in charge
keeps her own eyes blind to it all.
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