The undying truth is
Much less functional
Than the very real lie
For the lies lessened
Some burned burden
Truth be told I never
Learned one from a
Two or three or four
Never have I learned
Why a lie is spurned
For we live lies daily
Masks are attained
For usage, not show
Emotions are halted
As we walk paths of
Existence, existing
No longer living in a
World where being
Human equates to
A nuisance, for truly
If you expect to be
You must be a lie
A breathing, musing,  
Lousy, and cheating
And rousing, even
Adventurous, but
Prudent enough to
Know when enough
Is in fact, enough
To suffice for a time
In a day or a night
To wipe any two-way
Mirror off the face
Of your self as well
As the Earth, Heaven
And I suppose Hell
Although isn't that
Where we are living?
Or is that a lie, and
We are in fact ants
In a pile, formed by
God, in the form of
An eleven year-old
Child playing again
And again, and yet
Again a game of
LIFE and DEATH
With a group of his
Friends, whom act
As his lieutenants
And guardians of
His fortress that he's
Made out of cereal
Boxes and pillows
As well as blankets
And even his old
Disney tents which
Feature old favorites
Mickey, Minnie, Donald,
It's just plain Goofy
That these Angels are
Nothing more than
Imaginative children
Or is that imagination
What contains a very
Potent, easy solution
For imagination is a lie
That hasn't come true
But can in one form or
The other, in musicians,
In movies, in art pieces,
And all around us, awe
Inspiring pieces of us
Would take center stage
Because artistic visions
Are sneak peeks into
The future, and what
Can take place in our
Evolution as participants
In this child's game of
LIFE and DEATH
An ugly, foul swan can
Be a beautiful duckling
A horrid sunny afternoon
Can be a lovely rainy
Evening, with a freeing
Thoughtful sensation
Corralling our minds
While nurturing our
Fragile young bodies
For the age of One-
Hundred is but a blip
Of a nightlight in the
Face of sunlight
That's the burning
Truth, alongside our
White-hot lines of lies
Which begin at the
Cashier and work
Their ways out of
The door, while
Complaining about
Poor service and
Time wasted, when
Really they want
To go home and
Play some Facebook
Games and tweet
About the sandwich
They have yet to eat
Not knowing they
Are the ones being
Played by the God
An eleven year-old
Whom has earned
Few concerns in
His own game of
LIFE and DEATH
For he has imagination
He owns and controls
His personal set of
Very real lies, because
The undying truth is
Much less functional.