We are paradox, we reel on falsehood,
And yet we make museum of truth,
Running from perfection to perceptions,
In search for a curated place,
We become slave of temptations,
brewing storms of darkness in our head,
soaring in the sea of insecurities.
We call love a sin,
Yet we sleep with the silhouette of hate,
Parting with homiletic insight, we are,
Stirring supernal yearning of chaos,
Emptying our soul, to make room for angel of Obsolete.
Thus, From wits to senses, we're
dissuading our proud heart,
Invoking vessels of bedlam.
Wherever, we go,
we're transgressing doting love
Coveting memories and memoir,
Forging dark with light,
Murdering peace and mercy in rain.
In these lunging ritual, we are becoming more and more human.