Blades of silver-lined grass have cushioned the fall on my ass –
Once again, I take a hostage and somehow inch my way passed;
Fingers shaking too much to hold still, my own pistol at will;
Thoughts racing too far ahead of me and going too fast.

Trees bearing perfectly painted Paper-Mache fruits –
Line the mirage of roads that lead us so far from the truth;
It turns out anyway: when the sun sinks down every day,
It’s nothing more than another trick being played on me, too.

The moon hangs up high only long enough to revive –
The parts of this pirated vessel that can still “look alive”;
But then it once more – gets replaced just like before,
A solar mockery of a lunar journey to simply survive.

The cardboard doors fall in as soon as the knocking begins;
Just a façade made to look like there’s some kind of life within;
Templates of bodies without faces – drafted in pencil-thin traces,
Erases the lines away where the canvas wears thin.

Wrapped stupidly inside a snuggly blanket of lies;
Happy to step down and hand over such a cursed prize;
Soothed to death by a waking breath – in the wasteland that’s left;
Too tired to cry or wonder why – can’t wipe enough blood from my eyes.

And everyone says I have lost my mind this time;
In which case the truth would be so much easier to find –
But it remains aloof – this thing called TRUTH;
Enlightenment of the most poisonous kind.