This Way Of Life Poem by tyler madden

Lying has become when we're moving or speaking,
because us puppets have been peeping,
with our own hands up our own backs,
we've been reading over shadow's shoulder sleeping,
and now we mock the motive, not the act.

There's no point to this pile of slight,
no right in we wee isles wrung dry and tight,
top heavy and sinking beneath,
nothing to inherit nor bequeath;

all of these positions we assume,
lie comfortably between me and you,
we've settled into this way of life,
which honesty could easily refute.