falling apart the way paper falls apart in the rain.
Some may call them feelings,
but that doesn’t seem like enough,
doesn’t seem factual. It’s more like reality,
or some type of existence.
Ubiquitous in nature and form; present,
however, not accurate.
The lie bleeds onto perception,
altering truth, leaving stunned silence
in its wake. Organized chaos
follows as nature adjusts to the bend in time,
to the alteration of love,
seems unattainable, satisfaction
seems foreign. No way to escape, but also
no desire to flee.