How simple it is to make believe
Yet there is no relieve
When you are bereaved
The very end to achieve
All the tricks up your sleeve
When in the moment of breve
The truth is there to retrieve
But sadly in that grieve
By the darkest of the eve
That what you perceive
Only the shortest of reprieve
How can it be so naive
Of the lies that are cleaved
They only paint to peeve
To those who receive
And those who conceive
Wound would not leave
For words are too much to heave
Thus why deceive?
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