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Most of his days he’d been the trumpet of judgement day,

He tried in vain to conjure up a graceful face with a broken smile,

His veins screamed out loud the throbbing guilt that he felt,

And his sad eyes were desperately pleading for help

 

He had turned a blind eye to all the rhythms and flows of living,

For he risked offending his pious image that dwelled in the idyllic religion,

For they would come running with harsh condemnations,

With self blinded faith of words that chained any soul

 

Alone in the darkness, he felt the heavy burden of his heart,

He knew deep inside his life was a labyrinth of endless lies,

All that refused to drop the resistance of projecting own reality,

How much pain could one take? Shutting out self?

 

The idyllic religion has been proven impossible,

As it contains hidden lines and a light not yet born,

It is a heavy burden to bear, just like the truth,

And now his life felt too worn-out, it had failed

 

He was the hypocrite torn between pleading and pride,

He aspired and yearned for the life of the living,

But now…was it too late?

Like a storm, he had blown away the last strands of light,

From the flame of the candle that held his last shreds of hope…

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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7 thoughts on “The Hypocrite

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