we built a world of stories, saying
things were once pristine;
we smell the leaves, and see the trees:
a land of gold, and green --
as though we could hide what life is
behind the veil of time:
as though our varnish and our paint
could cover up the grime
that is our history and fate.
but what is real and true?
that we were never innocent,
and nor, my friend,
are you
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Tagged: Tags Poetry
Published by Beleaguered Servant
Owen "Beleaguered" Servant (a/k/a Sibelius Russell) writes poetry mostly, with an occasional pause to have a seizure.
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