Sonnet 4

[mrevileggplant]

Make-believe is a shallow game for two.
Donned to thrill, and in striking lies, bemuse.
Aware of, quite enamored with the ruse
the players acquiesce and drain the brew.
This stupor slows the mind, yet pulses race
off toward a terminus neither declare
concealed by propaganda most unfair
the fibs we sell ourselves to hold a place
within a system faulty at its core.
Each culprit lends a hand to truth's demise
while smiling with centripetal surmise:
that love exists if concert we ignore.
To play a part they're forced to fabricate
appeal their true accord shall obviate.

///

this one took too many years to finish. hahahaha