Sorsolier
Chains, you are. Round and round, repetetive and binding. You and your ill-silver circle are all that is wrong with me, all that is wrong with us. The endless, inescapable loop. Conformity, restriction hidden beneath a smooth, rounted exterior. You would have us stay - you would have us rot. But no - I create.
How can I trust you, locked behing my back. You could be smirking in there for all I know - plotting my downfall, giggling in the irony. How do I know you? Am I to throw caution to the wind and let you carry me blindly? I do not trust you to watch over me...