Barrage of societal Pressure,
The quicksand beneath Success.
Who paves the way
To the narrow curves with thorns,
Family or Foes?
Thin air provides the deceitful mask of comfort
Nothing is real.
Life is as dead as a shadow
With a surreal ghost. Supported by a strand
We are all dark matter. We are Rusty.
Yet we hold on to hopeless Hopes
And dark dreamy dreams.
We are noth' but puppets.
Who is the puppeteer?
Who decides the end?
For now, we swing to the strings of manipulation
Until this shadow fades into the dark Light.
the futility and uncertainty of life.