Poetry

The truth is always as clear as the sun,
But we tend to shut our eyes off,
And wait for the moon to fall,
The truth is always as close as the veins,
But we are keen to keep ourselves away,
We colour it, we banish it, and we forge it,
But it is always there, bitter but apparent,
Fearful but unchangeable,
And when comes the point of breaking down,
We unwillingly and powerlessly admit it.