The Den

Prosper Writes

The busybodies here and there, do play the songs of gossiping I hear. The whisper of death.
I try to not fall in their snare and their tempting looks to sway my soul away.
The weirdest disdain to be seen.

But then, someone far from my stare,
might keep a watchful eye on me;
that when he sees me passing there,
he wonders what i dare to see.

Although, I too must think it strange, to be a suspect in his place, someone would have to pay the wage to wipe the traces off his case.

I may have spelled my own foes, my own fears and my own terrors in the making of my own goals.

And with this trembling now and then
is there a lion in the den?
Is there a devil in mine heart?
Is there a hole in this den of a heart?

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