There’s a stench that accompanies self love.
Usually, it is the death of your soul
I’ve never met a person of worth,
that wasn’t perfumed with the truth of self scrutiny.
Never will you see them repeat a mantra of loving themselves,
regurgitations of utterly selfish inclinations.
Justifications, for lack or purging,
laziness in holding themselves to account,
for the most mundane of passing thoughts.
Nay, the fragrant ones are those who would saw away at their sinews,
if it meant purifying themselves from the egotism of self flattery,
adoration of their own reflection,
narcissism passed as self development.
You don’t see them seeking dispensations for their lowliness,
creating escape routes from their abased natures.
They stop, and won’t travel further than where they are meant to be,
until the room they reside in is white noise of purity,
operating on another frequency,
than the clemency,
people offer themselves in conformity.