The glamour presents itself with a kindly smile of amity,
Hiding the pock-marked face of a competitor with an empty belly,
Examining your life like pie on another home’s window sill.
The wine brought to your table tastes bizarrely of bitter almonds,
And the conductor in your breast struggles to learn which instrument in your orchestra is playing off key.
The invader cringes at the candles on your altar and quietly sucks the alimentary oxygen from your temple…
…And does it smiling.
The betrayer is not the lichen on your tree trunk, but rather the cestoda in your intestines.
Let neither time nor misplaced loyalty stay your hand when the charlatan is discovered.
End the traitor.