We write out secrets in our art
so the dark can tear us apart
every lie, every lust, every slight
Just so we can sleep at night

Don't expect to be loved back.
Because people nowadays are selfish and greedy which only has a will to accept if their eyes are very pleased.

It's not actually a flower
It's a painting of a flower
No definition beyond
The flower's we see
Out on the lawn
Merely an image
Paint fumes replaced
The charmers scent
That once
"Meaninglessly"
Drew our mates

An orchestrated opus
Of wayward heart
Galaxies of lyric-less
Wayward stars
Glimmering
From who knows
Afar
Meaningless poetry
Is all we are

Why do morning dove
Insist to sing
Meaningless songs
Birds of prey scream
Blinding beams of sunlight
Reflect off mighty seas
Blinding our eyes
Yet still we believe
What meaning has
The giant ancient trees
Majestic mountains
Purple beauties
These impressions
Of nature only define
Meaningless poetry
That beautifully rhymes
.................................