You,
with your aphoristic charm,
dancing without a care as you sip absinthe
into the sleepless hours of dawn –
all smiles and laughter within your elite,
esoteric gaggle of bright-eyed friends.

You,
in your stupor, your haze
of self-absorption and carefree bon-vivant,
cannot bear to acknowledge the footman and the maid,
whose lives run parallel to yours;
captivated faces, reflected sullen and destitute
in the polished silver trays they carry –
each truffle thereupon which would deliver them,
and those they love from their blighted existence
drenched in hate and self-loathing.

Dance on.

There will always be pain gilding your merriment
and hunger lacing the edges of your cornucopia.