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You win.
Or so you think.
You sit there,
On the throne that you have built for yourself,
Gloating, and mocking, and belittling.
You write off people that cease to be “useful”,
Who won’t allow you to tread on them on the way up.
I write off people who are the treaders.
And if after all the years of life
That you waste
By panicking over falling off of that throne,
Perched oh-so-precariously upon that ridiculous pedestal,
You still cannot see that of the two of us,
It is I who is better off,
Yes me, the one you scorned,
Failed to take seriously,
Washed your hands of,
Well then I shall know
That the day I burnt that particular bridge,
And the day I severed that particular tie
Was not a day too soon.

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