Fiat truth,
shelled out like artillery rounds,
inciting starbursts of flak:
we are not the war,
but the shrapnel.
Fiat truth,
shelled out like artillery rounds,
inciting starbursts of flak:
we are not the war,
but the shrapnel.
A lie is only a lie when plotted against the truth,
alone, the deception is plausible;
with time enough to gestate, undeniable;
with power enough to overwhelm, unchallengeable;
with support enough to rise, unquenchable.
Determined diminutive deceptions deftly directed,
degrade democracy, defending dictators.
Truth torn to tatters, tortured through tantrums,
transitions to trepidatious tragedies, that turn tail,
then takeoff.
We know only fantasy,
lies we’ve carried throughout history,
on backs, on packs, on animals and carriages,
on everything we could put our name to,
because those are lies too –
A sound was uttered without intent,
echoed, and intent was gifted.
A place was found to celebrate,
loved so much it became known,
shared, and then claimed, owned.
This is how the story goes,
on and on with momentum.
What we owned owning us,
assigned value, printed on paper,
that we depend on –
to be worth more than ourselves.
Still, all these feints in chorus,
compose a symphony of notes
someone told us were chords;
love, heroism, virtue, justice;
a life fulfilled, a place to be,
a heart, a time or feeling for which we long.
Honesty in this late stage,
is a cruelty, not a kindness.
All those colorful fables,
that line our hearts and minds with aspirations,
if critiqued, practically and with reason,
are suddenly
and dispassionately
gone.
Labor over me, I am no triviality.
When the craven shadows creep out the corners,
detritus spilling over the threshold of the coming day,
swallow your pride and come my way.
Deceit is a warm comfort to an old friend,
but that heat compounds anxiously within;
better to suffer the thin cuts of sharp ice,
than to ingest the ashes of a consuming flame.
I wear my life around my neck
heavy and grotesque
carried like a consequence
to actions unknown
It feels natural now to do so
the way it sways and shifts
keeps a rhythm with my pace
movements subtle gifts
Though my neck is sore with the burden
raw and red from the rope
my conscience is clear of the guilt
no act of mine brought this to my throat