EYE OF THE BEHOLDER

How be these twisted lenses,
the birth of our regrets,
distorted illusions,
securities pretense,
As if it was a friend of ours . . .
when we knew it as a lover.
We saw our own dishonesty,
relatives of an impulsive past,
Yet still we are of our own undoing,
blaming others on our paths,
with gifts full of obligation,
guilt wagons for future woes.

©Rick Doran

 

 

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