The sharpness of the truth
Is it a lie, that hurt the most.
Or maybe truth, that is at fault.
Is it the life, and every ghost.
Or maybe death, that make us halt.
It’s like a dance, it’s like a waltz.
That make us fly, and make us fall.
It’s like a padlock, and all the vaults.
That we have made, behind a wall.
The pain of life, make death so tempting.
That every second is lived so painly.
Don’t be afraid of this comedy.
Without an end, there’s no meaning.