Surreal

Life is not a poem.
There is no reason to our twisted life's rhyme.
There is no system to our metaphors.
Our lips are enemies and friends--
one has a song, one stays mute.
Life is not a syllable,
No ball rolls when gravity is null,
no words speak--
Our lips are killers, healers in the same.
One speaks riddles,
one resolves the pain.