To the universe I ask this question:
Why does a human live bear so many mysteries?
The misfortunes of the world seem to impale
An everlasting pain lurking to deprive
Those with no sense of who they truly are.
Is it because they lost themselves somewhere along?
Or have they not found their purpose quite yet?
Three facades are what my soul is made of:
Reality induced, wanting peace to everyone she touches;
Darkness, of what she cannot possibly explain;
A grey composition of an ever so still soul,
Without care nor thrive.