The grass is brown, and the skies are dark.
The wind is crisp and icy; the people are frowning.
That house is on fire, and the fire department is nowhere near.
The pages are burning, and we’re forgetting history.
Lies are believable when they have pretty lips—but the teeth are sharp, and the tongue is rotting.
The paint is peeling, and the floor is falling beneath us.
Yet everyone has filters applied to their realities—versions in which they tell themselves everything is fine.
To ignore everything will make it okay.
And I wonder—when the last filter fades, will they still believe it?