Truth in Tales

Breathe: in and out - where are the controls?

Smile, sing, or shout, whatever to console.

 

Place your hand on your heart: what's its motivation?

The pink inside your head: how does it know its vocation?

 

Today, I can dive or I can soar above clouds.

Tomorrow, I may die but my story still resounds.

 

Nothing proves that straw couldn't be spun into gold.

A poisoned apple, however, should never be sold.

 

Nothing in this world makes sense,

Except a mirror's truth to the beast's sixth sense.

This poem is about: 
Our world

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