(T. Beechey)

Just what is truth? A fanciful lie? Is that why it can't soothe each tear that I cry?
The revelation of fact before it is known: an unholy pact with the mystic unknown?
What is the pleasure that is found in pain? What price is treasure without any gain?
There's no reason or rhyme for such a curse...unless such a time is viewed in reverse

For sometimes lies can be the truth as seen through the eyes of wayward youth
Those who conspire and those which complain,who sit by the fire in the pouring rain
What is their dream? Who hears their plea? Doesn't it seem that once it was we
Who roamed the street so unaware of the rhythmic beat in the fragrant air?

Where are they from and where do they go? Why did we come and why don't we know?
Is there no answer? Are questions unheard? Perhaps now's our chance for a final word
Let's take a peek into what never was,just a moment to seek what within never does
Perhaps if we gazed in the reflecting glass,we'd be amazed at what images pass

For without the shadow or the disguise,we both truly look of our own eyes
It's anyone's guess but the clock on the wall says either confess or damned be us all

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