The Truth

Lies are a foreign sore
Deeper the matters of passion
Dark lit halls become the foreign myopia
Visions become blurred
Love becomes the lost when considering the fields within
Daffodils like leaves
Tulips like Cacti
With Roses like meadow blooms
Forget-me-nots becoming something bold 
A mystery or a treasure that is found
Never it is anything of its previous use
Could become something new entirely
Never shall this pass again
Try as it may its original form is blend
Trials become empty duties
Reminded
Remembered
Rigid
Respect
Rebounded 
Like focus and bossed around, it can never become
Simple as the concern of its form

Was it ever...the truth?