Confessions of Deception

Laying on the lonely road,
From far and few between,
A road with four directions,
Extend in every sight.
No Idea where which one leads,
Or even if the tides of green,
Hold the same anywhere,
Everywhere else,
The figure rests,
Deliberate in motion,
No intention,
No rendition,
Could possibly get it to move.

There is no emotion,
Just Blanks,
Just white clouds,
Moving, passing by;
Sharp wheat-thorn,
In the fields surround,
Restless,
But patient,
In the passing winds.

The wind whispers gently,
Pleased in its surroundings;
No movement,
No change;
Foreign Ideas;
It's all there,
In the gentle hills.

Hidden from the roads,
Away from the figure,
Are countless thorns,
Berries;
Vines,
Dead animals and trees,
Countless scars upon the land,
In the unearthly battlefield,
Great swaths of Hemlock,
And Mountainous row,
Upon row of Beautiful poisons,
And the banes,
Of daily life,
Signify madness,
Signify pain.

To the figure in the crossroads,
Not moving...
Just Lying there,
One would think it dead,
It not for the small rise and fall,
Of Breathe.
To the figure in the crossroads,
Not moving,
Just lying there,
Staring at the clouded ceiling,
Dealing,
With the Landscape there,
Broken Locks,
And Bloodied hair,
Aren't the only things,
He has to bare.

ISA