In a realm where we don garb Shakespearean,
A stage of life, with hues of pink to pen,
The heart doth thump, its rhythm fiercely sworn,
Yet oft we find our vows are forsworn.
With xanthophyll in leaves, the autumn calls,
A golden flush where sunlight gently falls,
We reset time, as seasons ebb and flow,
Like trick-or-treating ghosts from long ago.
A googolplex of stars lights up the night,
Yet truth’s a stain, like smegma, hid from sight.
No matter how we strive to cleanse, to mend,
The heart’s own trick may never find an end.