The life we lead is filled with those

Who come and who go and as they do, show

Us they have either have mettle or lack it

For many of them do hide under their jacket

True qualities to stand them in good stead

But instead of using them - they're oft red

With the color and blush of their deception

And as they go on with their warped perception

They lead, tease, and twist themselves into knots

And when it's all over - they are all too hot

With the knowledge they've tied themselves up

With games they have used to turn keys into cups

To welcome others into their small spaces

So then they can perform with little traces

And twist arms, legs and other prides

As they attempt to stem the coming tide

Which washes up on the shore past breaks

Which have not been able to yet make

A dent in the skin which covers the meat

After trying so hard to find a heart which beats

Words of love and words of truth which hide

Behind shells where outcasts do slide

In and out of cracks where there's no real fusion

For, really, at bottom - ALL Love - is an illusion.



- Tristram