Words of the Bruised Ego

How they stand and where they sit
Things were brushed and bristled, oh the way of wrong
Pulling and pushing through the long way
Yet there is nothing but an angle of the lost
Where doth it say and lay?

With the bruised, how it lingers
Even when wrong doth it hurt
Pride is to be swallowed
For though it aches, it is still right to push down.

Doubling down is wrong and the fault
There is little to nothing to be seen
Yet only the small portion that shall sit
And so shall it be

Only there in thought, left to linger and so to pass

It is little more than the words of a bruised ego, and only a moment's whimsy.