Tangled vines creep,
Sprouting webs of lies into fragile reality,
Decaying slowly, as time weathers them away.

Reality, born from actions,
Yet so much slips beyond control—
A game with invisible rules.

Some trim the vines,
Others let them grow wild,
Consumed by the swarm of addiction.

They wither in the drought of tears,
Longing for the rain to fall
A weight they bear alone,
Left to suffer.