why is life,
so vein, so colorless,
in the hopes,
or the void,
of something that we crave,
dreams turn to dust,
love dies a painful death,
and the ashes are gone,
from what used to be,
an excited man,
where images of the future,
danced in his mind,
but never coming to pass,
decaying to nothing,
fade to nonexistance,
from the memory,
that is still only a shell,
macbe is the only truth,
in this hell,
we call earth,
eyes see the truth,
nothing is what it seems,
not the mind,
not the soul,
not the life,
not the love...