Lies, compliant lies, that spell
Our names and wish us well;
But hidden in whose blood is war –
Subpar but harsh to understand.

Lies, such lies are possible;
All within the broke world’s trouble,
What is love without loveliness,
What are tears without sadness;

Lies, such lies do exist;
But be seen through happy mist,
The mildest one felt at heart,
Tearing at us, consumes our blood;

Lies, such lies are ever born;
Unblinking amongst God’s thorns,
That He dies in its shrine;
Frayed in the morning sunshine.

That yon life of ours is scratched;
Not even when truths are fetched,
Growing into the skies of autumn,
That look like those radiant poems;

That the grass shall not be green;
And the midnight is not seen,
Though lovelier than summers,
Washed with ****** thunders.

And poems lie not, they shan’t;
They are what the heart wants,
The words of despaired justice,
The divided bliss, soaked kiss.

And the poet is right – of warmth;
Only to be found in real charms,
And their dignity that all knew—
Lies are undignified, untrue.

What is it with violent hearts;
Those that make our souls cry,
And tear our feelings apart,
But tears are true to the sky.

What is it with untouched lies;
The lies that thread us but tore,
As though there was no more,
When truth finally dies.

What is it with unheard death;
As we deepen our last breath,
Will we find love, and comfort;
Unnamed tales that were cut short.

What is it with lovely riddles;
Dwindling our minds to tears,
Ridding our eyes of fears,
Peering through rough scraggle.  

And the poet shall know better;
That honesty has died alone,
Not much of Desire is known,
No truth shall last forever.

And the poem shall read longer;
That grass is blue, and green rain
Are what is to happen ever,
Pain is normal at all, again;

And the poet shall have left;
To be just but to be unjust,
Moments are never to last,
Love is not what hearts have.

And the poem shall have caved;
In to the pain ‘tis meant to be,
That no more bears meanings to see,
No more love shall be saved.