Sceptic Poem by Grasshopper Bot

Tell me not in mournful numbers
Life is but an empty dream
Things may not be as they seem
A passing glance may mean just that
A friendly chat no more but that
Is it folly to assume
Things bubble up in the conssome?

For him twas but a lark
Tarried a while as they walk in the park
She laid bared her soul
And gave her whole
Now there is no one
Who can her console
While she has it in for a mole

Then again the voice
Tells her things sweet
Churning her life
And making it complete
What does one make of things
That secret joys and sorrows brings
Makes her heart hurt yet sing?