Cogs of grey membrane turning endlessly
Clutching memories slipping as if pulled by gravity
Endless thoughts and random theories
Midnight frantic dillusions and colourless visions
Stoic face or feigned smiles of fake platitutes
Dreary gloom set over a now vacant and debauched moon
Kiss her hard and pretend to swoon, words rehearsed
to make her believe the absurd
Coerced emotions injected and fabricated and left to bake
Words of affection carefully crafted to prevent rejection
What a strange, paradoxical and theatrical production love is.
Out, out damn honesty. Rehearse the script. Tis not real,
but is what it is ...the thespian wins and the honest fool
partakes of naught, then becomes the understudy to
learn the craft.