My Own Deception

Who am I, but another lost soul to the void;

An iota of the mystic memory driven by time;

The truth that I so earnestly avoid;

These roots of mine that grow dismal rime?

I live by a brain I forbodingly suit,

And an abysmal journey that holds unequal fairness;

For I have been both flowers and fruit,

And it showed all but bareness.

Through hollow fields of sorrow's keep,

I pass without a moment to weep,

It wakes, then fades, in eternal sleep,

My own deception haunts the void so deep.