What fools are blown about upon a breath?

Divisive, evasive, her voice splits and curls
like smoke churning in mixed direction.
Fools follow, their chins hung upon the mist.
She can paint for them the masks,
I bear them, but will never wear them.
Without argument, without objection,
I reserve myself to quiet acceptance
while she dresses me in whatever role her fears dictate.
The robes are hers, but my life and deeds my own.
The fools who follow have misled themselves.
The wise witness action and are unmoved by rumor.
There is no reason in moving against words.
By whether they judge virtues upon her voice,
They are themselves judged of virtue and acumen.