The Dire Truth

What is word not meant for pages,

You’ll say I am silent behind my true face.

What is fear not meant for brave-hearts,

You’ll say I have seen all that comes apart.

 

You’ll come and suffice with hymn my heart doesn’t sing,

Memories you lived, hopes you’ve sowed creeps away

and you’ll say I write because my truce has never

made it your way.

 

What is sleep not meant for dream,

You’ll say illumination inside me are reflection of dormant beam.

What is life not meant for love and lust,

You’ll say I’ve walked roads engraved with dusk and dust.

 

You’ll come and close the gaps, in-between I am trapped,

Faces you’ve drawn, kisses you left creeps away

And you’ll say I write because my prayers has

never seen more than your dismay.

 

Are you blind to the silence of your shadow?

Where I wake up every morning and grow.

You’ll say life has moved on beyond my watch,

I am still counting the days lost by your gift of botch.

 

You’ll say I am never meant to be yours,

And am I only meant for your abhors?

You’ll say I lost every fight I lived in,

Am I suppose to win where I have not been?

You’ll say I only write because I cannot ride the flight,

And when your speech will die, corpses of my dire truth

will show you why I write and a goodbye.

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