When your own twist the facts to fit their mould,
When on those facts heartily you put your trust,
And you come to know your words were bent,
And skewed out of shape and so you are told.
What happens us what happens as iron rusts,
Whatever, the trust you tried to build, is far sent,
Into the oblivions of what should be so wonderful,
Into the crannies of what could've been beautiful.
Why does your own do that to you?
Why, when the relationship was all but new?
Why couldn't it be built, Why would it skew?
Oh! If only the bonding of trust would've been pure.
Oh! The pure had been replaced without a cure.
Oh! If only with our words, we had been sure.
©enoshcp
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