And the manners are polished, the silver gleams bright,
But the sentiment's tarnished in the fading light.
Oh, the barbarism blossoms behind a closed door,
Where love is a weapon and leaves you wanting more.
The floral wallpaper, a predictable stain,
Reflects the silence, a dull, persistent rain.
Another Sunday, the roast sits on the bone,
And unspoken judgments are quietly thrown.
He clears his throat, a familiar, weary sound,
While all the unspoken resentments spin around.
She adjusts her pearls, a nervous little tic,
Recounting stories, predictable and quick.
The children fidget, their eyes begin to glaze,
Lost in the labyrinth of these repetitive days.
He offers advice, sharp and unsolicited,
Another brick added to the wall we've erected.
The photographs on the mantelpiece, a smiling facade,
Hide the cracks beneath, the battles we've had.
We play our roles with practiced, weary grace,
A tragicomedy in this suffocating space.
And the manners are polished, the silver gleams bright,
But the sentiment's tarnished in the fading light.
Oh, the barbarism blossoms behind a closed door,
Where love is a weapon and leaves you wanting more.
The evening descends, a heavy, velvet shroud,
Another day survived within this well-behaved crowd.
And the barbarism lingers, a taste upon the tongue,
Until the next gathering, when the same old song is sung.
