Façade

Self-convincing deceptions
We make and accept in Life

Each one pricks as a tiny cut
An almost imperceptible wound

We wound our deepest self
To choose what lie we will

Tending gardens of our hearts
As the nightingale weeps a lonely song

The flowers are melancholy
That content, we lose the dream

Bleeding drawn by pricking thorns
With putrescence we cultivate roses

© 14 August 2019, by D. Denise Dianaty