The thorns of our failures are never more prominent than when spoken by the tongue of innocence.
Honeyed words spun so sweetly to hide the foul bile within. The voice of velvet giving way to the coarse cut of a reality earned.
There is no love here, just a false sense of entitlement, a feeling grown expectant rather than yearned for.
When you seek the answer, think first of what you ask, lest you find it staring back at you from the darkest depths of insolence.
There is only one certainty to be found within, a truth lost amidst a millennia of fallacies and misdeeds.
Truth is a falsehood known by few but flaunted by many, an unbalanced blade that cuts through flesh with a jagged edge.
Perspective is king, and he who wears the serpents crown wields the sword of truth. A blade of venom, hypocrisy and deceit.
A poem by Furrion 17