The lament of living an entire life as a lie 
Whilst insisting on hating lying
Where the mask was passed down unto its owner 
And to its owner it shall stay 
Progeny no longer, the end of all things
The last gasping cry of a creature
Whose relevance wanes
It lashes out and creates a wave
It thinks will fool the sleeping 
As it crashes, careening through the streets 
It forgets to account for the waking.
Seeing it for what it is,
A damning, damnable miasma 
A legion hidden behind image and thought
Laughing at its victory.
Drove the wearer mad, 
Destroyed the one sent had, or so it thought
Thrice to meet the maker
Thrice sent back.
Remind me thrice, I said 
That sounds familiar
Lies to account for, lies to surrender 
How should accounts be made 
When lies are truth to their creator.
So the whole life through 
Blue looks for blue 
Through the wrong lenses 
And masks the wrong hue.
And misses the forest for the forest
Of butcher paper and acrylic 
Painted by legion to hide the splendor 
That was hidden inside.