The Act Of (Not) Thinking Clearly Poem by Ash Price

She walks across a sphere of influence,
or maybe it's just affluence.
An over exaggeration of importance. She dwells in a wolves nest,
where everyone is dressed up like lambs.
Coarsely affected, I remain in my seat, where else could I dwell
with such excitement and glamour, while wolves acquire sheep blood? She stops and unfolds her butterfly wings,
yet her fur cannot help but show. Her fangs bare, though she tries so hard to patronize them with her lovely views.
She is of course not there, it is all just a mirage for her eyes are cloudy with misjudgement. her mouth opens as if to cry. The applause drowns her sadness.
Anything for fame, I suppose...