inside, nuggets of pleasure and pain,
without all right, the pledge went awry.

it came out that with all the ones that joined,
no single source of calm was delivered out
into the few remaining teachers.

and there could not be anything less burdensome
than the pressure to dwell in the moments between,
as if the thinnest sheet of paper
had enough space vacant inside of its sides
to contain stories never written
and by those written, stories implied.

fibres and strands compacted by force,
so forced the hand to write the superficial plane
of smiles on faces and sores in mind
that contradicts the truth we fail to offer.

and when we wallow in that shallow swamp
and lay upon our own-made bed of nails
there isn't any farce less strange
than the farthest from the lie we grow
inside our dank rank dusty lair of comfort
and the unforeseen failure of our wills.

no more consolation that comes in time
to share the hardship of being here
amidst small shards of sharpened half truths
and blinding white lies.

we carve to perfection
and polish mirrors that reflect our deceits,
as much as we polish false mirrors
that misreflect our scarce admissions.

and the moments inside the sides, we hide.