how can something be seen
if it's hidden well behind the door?
this interlacing dance we do,
repeated over and over again and some more
with the dropping of hints, simple comments and looks,
it's become quite a tire and a definite bore
seems to me all that was or what all could have been
has become nothing more than just common folklore...
a fake and an artist, a magician even so
shifting shapes, changing phrases, incognito to the core
never knowing, always pleasing, lies that fill the air around
and these mind tricks always switching are making me become quite sore
painting pictures of a certain scene, labels placed about the room
calling sinners out and liars too, all fakers, cheats and whores
no longer pleasantries and honesty, it lacks in severe forms
while we maim and hurt so senselessly, in this secret hidden war.