The Deception

Maybe some of us have an inclination and are somehow aware That there exists a foredoomed concoction of our cerebral affairs And that there are others who are passive, masquerading in plain sight Hiding their cascades of sorrow, behind facades of solace and smiles Nobody knows of what escapades, that each of us were bequeathed Yet perhaps we all know that deep down, there exists an alternative A perplexing ringing, an insatiable itch that just won't go away And with no concept of clarity, we unjustly gaze towards tomorrow’s hostility Signs adorn the peripheral landscape, only their messages are wearily obsolete Perplexities whilst disconcerting, never cause any degree of mystifying disbelief Even though these are somewhat difficult memories, upon which we regularly reflect Cursed are we amongst these others, undeservedly aware that the cure is the disease It is truly with ultimate desperation that we shall endeavour never to forget So we simply shrug this nuance aside and continually pursue the shadows tail.