Life Is A Cliché

Life Is A Cliché

Life casts it self like an ephemeral candlelight shadow,
cliché identities spying through a looking glass fearing,
the waxy covered tales that are only so dull and hollow,
I gaze at some of them just to see if they are hearing,

Scraps of lies; of unoriginal zombies rambling about,
holding on to their blah blah with beholding tedious lies,
the haze in their eyes, the faces are red; gives doubt,
there are knots in their own apprehensive bloody ties,

Phase I; I think I am not afraid to say I’m just a cliché,
I will start all over again and become a bit more pedantic,
dreams don’t often lie, nor does the truth; I must say,
As soon as my wounds are lynched, again I’ll be frantic,

Nature and science, but heaven and hell I doubt you exist,
A fog lifts in order to go through another transient transition,
looking back with disdain at hideous obstacles; I do insist,
Dreams may lie true; I may as well play dead in submission