We think of ways to deceive ourselves, crown ourselves with laurels and thorns,
leave anonymous wrecks, bastardized dreams, severed vows, uncanonized hymns.
let us name the wrecks for once:
till the heart uncensored overflows, and everything that lies within lies without.
the melancholic heart, dry and feeble, lies flat, clutched by ignoble fingers
too weak to speak
it draws its pain as the sun sets
and the world retreats into the night.
even when the self dissolves, our deceptions linger.