Who are we fooling?
In our contraband of epic lies,
the lips of Serenity bleeding, forgotten
spoken too many times with ill will.
Why do things have to make sense?
Why does life yearn- for presence?
Itself, alone, as always- alone,
we are but entities of destruction,
a million billion grenades
set to seal our bitter end.
But life itself yearns for harmony,
words that flow and flit like rain,
like a melody caught in the fingertips
of a child in a springtime play,
where metaphors linger as clouds
on the edge of our eyes with our dreams.
Dreams of reality,
as we wish it, where poetry flows.
Poetry like lullabies that lulls the heart to ache,
and carry ‘way the dreaded life we have lived to fake,
all robots in an endless whirl of drab felicity,
we take our dues when we are through- and never let it be,
we can’t just rhyme and let our lies set down where they lay,
we must all conform to find our pieces of this bitter day,
and form a life from crossword hints- deciding what is right,
think of things like pillow mints and sweets to make life bright,
when we should have left our lives
with our bitter Plight,
Serenity’s a bitter fool,
she’s gone from all our sight,
Now we are but Plight’s great tool,
to massacre our race,
to desecrate our hallowed grounds
and spit right in God’s face.