Bonafide

Insincere integrity,

You fall victim to the ruse.

Nothing less than a felony,

Nothing else to choose.

 

This is the real face of your enemies,

Cold, hard, set in stone.

No solace from the cruel and sickening memories,

Left to immerse in torrents of unconsolable seclusion alone.

 

Yet you sit and lament,

Of your untroubled, quiescent lives.

Our intolerance, in slow augment,

Concludes your grief as would knives.

 

Exactly like white torture,

Orchestrating a phychological torment.

Prying eyes and vicious voracity is brothers with the vulture,

Condemned by the evil within to manifest delusive content.

 

Depression is the dark cloud that erupts,

Ablaze with a sting so raw.

The passive - aggression of your conscience concealing a craving to corrupt,

The visions you witnessed, that no one else saw.

 

Lingering malfeasance subdues you down to a dead soul,

The hopes and dreams they envisioned, now they have none.

Blinded by your asylum addiction, the beast within you destine to control,

You don't see your life draining like a dying sun.

 

A shattered hope,

Distant and reticent hidden in the resovoir of dreams.

Withered into a ghost not fit to cope,

Your life extricating at the seams.

 

Come walk with me along the boulevard to hell,

We seek a hidden virtue in it's misconceived perdition.

We'll wear a mask of delirium and profess that all is well,

Until our souls torpidly succumb at the spire of our expedition.

The End

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