Part of the time,
Confined and left,
At the doorway,
Empty and crushed, left aside,
While another always all fine,
One side to be discarded and crushed, yet always remain,
The other a facade? or is it?
The truth of the illusion is never knowing,
Illusion from actuality,
Is there in fact any difference?
When all are cards played on the table?
Are they played? or embodied?
Crushed and erased,
The side of everyone,
The true but not to be seen.
Lies and Janus-faced only to be seen.
An art of misdirection,
Through the creation of a world so fake,
Creation in order to make, shape.
Writing, thinking, pondering, do I know why I feel like this? Upon more pondering I know what might be, but if this is the case it makes me even more saddened.