Infinitely it stretches,
above me as I lie,
Oh I lie, for the world is a silent illusion.
I lie – at a distance.
Observing their patterns.
I lie to asunder myself from derision.
They knit a web so complex,
often lose a finger in it’s knit.
They dig a grave for someone,
and fall asleep in it’s making.
It’s all in jest,
in retrospect – ignored as childish contempt.
Making merry today,
while their hurt churns inside.
Of absolutes, their is nothing left.
The world in all it’s transcience is bereft – of truth, of love, of honesty – of doves.
So let the clowns frown behind the apparent smiles,
let the mourners hoard the show tonight.
They all come in jest,
cause tragedy is a spectacle.
It’s a show; see now here’s the puppet master.
He sits aside and watches all burn,
blinded by the pride,
he doesn’t see his humanity churn.
So buy the tickets now,
crowd the hallways.
hear the gong, what follows is silence…
Image Source: The Viewspaper