To rest in the institution one settled, presumptions may have been true

Presumptions known to mettle, turns institutions into ash and gloom

Adopted by relative conclusions, administered through notoriety

Perfection was the illusion, as taught by polite societies

Those moments shined so bright, like only a fable could

Memories held too tight, gone in the ashes of adulthood

Fools and liars spew ostensive veracities, always expected is the norm

Blind faith scars gullible casualties, their only offense was to be born

Oh!  Always entertain suspicions, cries the tutor to his student

Presumptions are admissions, guilty or blameless is never prudent

Illusions of perfection persist, as death befits the conspiracy of silence

Stifled whispers from a boney fist, beaten with ruthless forces of violence

Souls are hostages held by cold mortality, stolen more than bequeathed

Memories concealed in epitaphic rhapsodies, censored by the conceited

Fools, liars, blameless, or unknowing, it all matters not

For death is inevitably approaching, thus society venerates inimitable plots

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