Hypocrisy

Looking for myself in the remaining of me
Thou art no where with pain
Messy images 
Foggy streets
Wrinkled hands
Trembling voice
Faces are covered with clay
They fall apart
Each piece has a story
A story of struggle and surviving
Within the pieces
I looked for mine
That might fell in those muddled streets
I looked under the foot of the hypocrites
That their sights glimmer in the dark
Smiling smashing my piece
To be left with the remaining of old me
Touching the clay
Wiping the dust of the rotten shoes
Taking my piece in my shivering hands
Keeping what I can 
And walk
Walk to find the other pieces
Taking deep breath