The Art That Plays

A string of lie in a culinary way,

To hide and subscribe, for the praise,

Which urges and dirges within,

To go for anything and to anyway,

Faced everyday, everywhere, and nearby,

It consigns the mind out of a clear and pure path,

And sucks like a dark black hole,

You'd neither know and nor would you feel,

Covered by dust, and granules,

Takes through the haul of the flames,

The day would come and will definitely run,

Though it would be late, not too late,

The consequences of the mischievous contents,

Been at the touched skies or flown to the peak,

It will show the mirror, and the real figure,

Merging from nowhere and will make to stand at the first lane,

Every passing day will,

Weigh your creed and your actions,

There is no one who is abandoned through this clause.