Our lost reality

Delusions
Confusions
We say what we are
Conflicted by every mar

Every tiddle and drop
Of ink is a flop
We lie and let live
Always take, never give

Inflictions of prose
Renditions of death grows
Is life really that wrong?
Is it part of a sad song?

Perhaps our emotions
Have become habitual devotions
Being the constant
Having never lost it

And so we write
Such a sorrowful sight
We commend
And surrender

To sadness of soul
Of our lack of whole
So we exist
Fools dying of a cyst

That isn't even there