Something New

Self appointed charades
from laughable lunacies
affect the action of our existence.

The question isn't do I exist?
It's how do I exist?

In a paper mache paradise,
with rose and cyan and mint
that bleed in the rains
of real life's pain.

Or a city of dirt and steel,
With towers crumbling before unbelieving eyes
and statues of half forgotten men
whose infamy is lost
on the offspring of their transgressions.