Wondering what overcame the gentle claims 

of the grotesque calls of depression. 

One mistakes love for the meaning of life. 

Yet the corrupt bringings of the so-called truth make none happy 

but the bringer himself who calls himself the likes of strife. 

But what does he bring–jealousy and unhappiness. 

Grief of unreliability, 

The intensity brings nothing more than the will to forget it. 

Claims and breaks are nothing more than a distraction 

Deeming downs and drenching ditches. 

The lens lack foresight beyond the walls of the mind. 

But nothing obscures the true view but the lack of back. 

Blind are the brethren to the phenomenon, 
The desperate likes of love.