And to aall of those friends, you are just a friend. Any one of them. Today your best, tomorrow rest, and then a Judas’ friend.
For friends are not foes, nor foes your friends. Time and wealth, love or pain, grief and hate, all or one, a mirage that turns to foe, a friend.
Are bad friends,
And from aall of those friends, you’re just a blink away, from foe to friend. Like a sheath is to a sword, a sheath is to a dull blade… “Nipson anomēmata mē monan opsin“
One knows that one is all to all, and all are all to one, the smile that shakes the hand, the evil grin of a knife at play. The tears. The Joy. Revenge
Are Machiavellian friends,
And of aall those friends, the one who’s meant to stay, will step away and claim your head – “Et tu, Brute?”
Their facade is pure and fresh, their gestures nimble, their lingo straight. But their soul is tainted with forgotten pain. Like brown, fetid clay, putrefaction shapes the figure of such a friend. Every now and then one wonders if they can even smell themselves. Like shit
Are honest friends,
And of aall those friends, there’s but a handful that deserve this place, even without knowing that they’re always there. From friend to foe, nay – period.
They give a helping hand, a life if you may. You can sit next to them and watch the day by day, simple, honest, compassionate, sturdy when you’re astray. A coin for every smile, a smile for every broken heart, a heart warming thought for every tear spent – “… this is the ideal life…”
And to think that, like an ant, one can not survive without friends.