We often prefer the lie
But not for the ease of belief
Rather
We need hard realities
Broken down
The stories we are told
Rarely are true
But they are portions
That are more real
Than truth
Small little fictions
To remind us
Of the reality we understand
We forget
Our own crucifixions
We forget
How life takes our joy
Snatches it away
With nails through our hands
And our very own
And our very own
Crown of thorns
That we pull down
Upon our skull
We sorrow
But we linger
In the echoes
Of the pain
Of the moment
Even
When that is
Torment
