Decay

Decay;
Through the branches of truth and desire,
The lonely eyes which search for solace
Leave a stench through time; A game of lies
And dies; the Sun roasts the leaves of cries
The amalgamate, the alloy of eternity; Decay.

Underneath your skin, it flows through the vessels
Igniting even the most singular of deformities
Within you; your soul, helplessly poor in the racism
Of companionship, champions in misery; Decay.

What, I wonder today is a decay?
For everything eternal, speaks but
Of the one and only  truth; the Circle.
Or does there too wait just another coating
Another peel, entangled in self similarity?
Is it then a shadow game of concentric circles?
Or is there an unending decay waiting to happen?

But if not a decay, if not a decay
How much mystery does a pyramid detain?