We are all such selfish beings
by instinct...self-preservation rings
through the soul of each.
Pretense, facades - illusions of
the mortal kind; eyes are blind
and the Truth of all lies just
beneath the surface.
Pomp and circumstance
hold hands in the moments
of need; one must read
between the lines.
In hindsight, the picture
becomes real, substance,
true substance is absent
in the face of all politics...
Just a glitch in life.
To contend with the
negatives around us,
blinders sit tight about ones eyes.
No more looking at blue skies;
one cannot see through the
mists of deceit.
All of the laughter, the joy,
the pretense that shows;
these are the things that
stifle the glow of a true heart -
This is not the arena in which I
belong, the mists of deceit...
Far too thick, way too strong.

© 2004, Deborah L. Kelly