Between the truth and the reality,
are the Blurred Lines of our existence.
Somewhere far from the ghastly reveries,
are the mourns of repentance.

Hands clutching to the wet floors,
as they walk the green mile;
scratching at the throat of half-eaten dreams,
caving in with pain servile.

Lies ,caged in disgust of words
unspoken, spill red on the past.
Tears blur our night, senses naught,
the blurred lines mark our way to the cross…


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