Blustery emotions we never quite reveal,.
Held closely to the breast, we keep hollow charade
In clutching to desire, allowing us to feel
Passion for our lives behind handsome painted facade.
What pray tell do these falsehoods promise portend,
But misery and suffering at their wretched feeble hand.
Lies behind a masquerade, this be all that it sends
As it passes through the narrow, the hourglass sand.
To whom doth this harm, dishonesty deceive,
None other than ourselves with a lifetime of regret.
Whilst in our final hour, its our soul that we grieve,
Taken to the grave, eternity ne’er forgets.
Would truth not have been wiser, to others and ourselves,
For in the end lies get washed away like watercolors–not pastels.
.
~~ Dominic R. DiFrancesco ~~
