The Dead Do Not Lie.
An illusion we weave, deliberately.
Occult love, Granted since I was a girl,
Sold my dreams, To else’s daughters;
And I felt my death, So my chatoyant town,
Was painted, the darkest grey.
Love debilitates Love
Somewhere alone, In the park,
I heard a mother singing,
Dead girls do not lie.
Her rueful pen, Glided across the page,
With futile grief, A scarred life,
Tired eyes, Halcyon shades Disappear.
The illusion Of love
Somewhere alone, In the night,
I heard a father cry,
Dead boys do not lie.
They fell prey, To your lamentable ways
They begged for you to stop,
That tragedy would gloat,
And they would not survive;
But you left the hall,
With an imbrued knife.
A candent shine,
A pensive goodbye;
And even though, We might be heard,
You know We know that,
Dead girls do not lie.
Still air, Where They have to lay;
No one can even see them smile.
A woman to a mother, A man to a father
They left the your world,
Petrified.
Because they know,
That their dead boys and girls,
Did not lie.
