My head is bowed down,
but not in prayer;
it’s heavy with sanctimony.
Speedily I enter thought –
that untamed forest of brooding, –
where I dwell like a recluse;
an anchoress of devotion,
not to a god,
but to the self;
detached,
not from sin,
but from salvation.

//Hypocrite

//Collette Kristevski, Oct 2018

*art and words are my own*