La verdad en la vida

La verdad en la vida


Pierced through your thoughts your humanity lingers.
Through shattered memories, you try to make sense of it all.
Sometimes, light is permitted through the gray scale figments,
with the sublime sense of false respite settling on your head.



The winds of change blows from where the furnace screams,
a hard life, is never a choice, it's the only option you have.
Life is a busty whore, smeared with make-up and clad with lies.
Love is a fairytale of frontier unknown, but behest with worries.

Work is a bitch in fancy lingerie, suckling her suffering infant son.
giving him assurance that there is hope when there's none.
The truth are the somewhat seasonal climate changes,
that toys with you when you decide to figure things out.

Life is a cruel writer, sputtering ill-conversations with himself.
It's a photographer, which captures memories in a broken jar,
And prints the photos on creased canvass and stained frames.
It's the traffic cop which gets side-swiped by the truck of time.