A group of us, in a circle.
We ruin the lives of those we envy.
They call us heartless,
Maybe we are.
Do I speak for all of us?
A group of us, in this circle.
We try to make perfection.
They call us nobodies, but aren’t we somebody?
A group of us, in a dwindling circle.
Our ides started to differ.
Perhaps we aren’t all together.
Were we ever?
A group of us, in a circular room.
Our graves state our true identities.
Through death, we now know who is somebody.