He paints a canvas of concerns
each sooty headline is a scar,
his brow is wrinkled, skin is burned;
and when he sighs you think he cares
But it’s just a game; his heart is black
he wears his mask of empathy
pretends and preaches, still he lacks
a human sense of chemistry.
He mirrors every word you say
He nods and seems to understand
He looks you straight into your eye
and promises with outstretched hands.
He sells his mother; pawns his son;
you trade your soul for snake oil cures
and then he leave you all alone.
To trust in him is premature.
I leave it open to you to put in your least favorite snake oil salesman here. Posted for Open Link Night at dVerse. Kim hosts.
October 5, 2017