For every drawn out dreary poem

Exists one sadder than before

A waging war of weary whims

Mothering madness all the more

Words which march across a page

Laden heavy with their woes

Hidden beneath the skins of lambs

Crouching wolves lay low

Their masquerade of big charades

A world of make pretend

In hopes your eye, its fancy find

Obscurity without end

Letters joined in ritual

Holding one another’s hand

Lines between which lie the truths

You seek to understand

But also come a warning with

The false you find is true

The true you find that hides behind

A darkened shade or two

Trust in full one never should

Or count yourself unwise

Within the details devils be

To tell you all their lies

So certain be that more you’ll see

Making sense all the less

And possibly, i’ll say of me

That these can be the best



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