An oblique sky, forced and contrived,
Between painted walls and a ceiling too low.
What you see is not all there is,
And the world at large, looms with gloom;
A fostered yearning for the dazzle and macabre,
The dark side, of puppets' eyes and shadows.
A blur, a despotic tableau,
Of shifting grounds and broken hills,
Of houses upon lakes, roadkill on highways,
And humans, saddled in cemented brace.
Guilt and fear hang like a noose,
Swaying and swayed by summer winds,
Waiting for the prey to step outside,
With a push to squeeze the gush out of life.
The innate need to find a path,
That which can give and fulfill,
All that you ever craved,
That grew with you; deprived.
A strange mirage of virtues
Dangles at the places they pray,
And in sins they find a meaning,
To gift away lies and claim grace.
If you don't believe,
You may die. Else die trying.