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.
Copyright © Poet Wayne | Year Posted 2025
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