Whose tale to tell...

Lingering within is a small wisp of sweetness,
so rare and precious that he is shrouded and oblivious,
to other vivid colours surrounding him.
Entangling himself in luminescent dreams,
forbidding the touch of salient virtues,
no longer aware of the creeping thorns,
encasing the criterion of all flesh and blood,
a weak part of the soul easily corrupted; the heart.

Now the coin is flipped,
judgment being passed in accord to the two faces.
Which to face, he knows not.
Fearing both, he sit weeping in the mist of a dark past,
too lost to find his way out.
Stretched hands now soaked in tears,
only to be held by hands that burns to touch,
so brilliantly shining, that he retreats again.

Now a languid soul walking down the aisle of penitence,
bearing the remnants of a tarnished self,
heaving himself towards his yearned end.
Nothing left to cherish, all was lost but regained,
only to perceive what it is to feel what is never meant to be.
His deeds crumbling behind his steps,
now solitary along the boulevard of broken dreams.

His life, efforts, and dreams,
now nothing but a cloak on a clown,
too indulged in deceit, sworn never again to lift his face
without the enclosure of beautiful masks.
Joined in a parade of the living lost,
condemned to be forever hidden behind lies to weave his way
towards a salvaged rest, of a neatly hemmed fabrication of truth,
known as "hypocrisy".