There were times
that it was all my imagination.
I know,
I swore for years that it was real,
but now I see
that it was all an illusion.
I believed the symbols,
never knowing what they meant.
Your attraction made you draw much closer
than was probably safe
for either you or I.
You breath was hot and soft.
You bent your supple body
to the hands
of an imitator.
You came with just a finger
For a fraud.
Liar.
Thief and storyteller.
Line by line
the lies pile up,
and topple
to bury another
elaborately deceived lover.
Slip the quips in quickly.
Laughter leaves her lips
For she has so imbibed
the metaphor and ministrations
and I think she knows
that none of it is real;
not yet,
but some part of her
wants to believe
that it could be.
A child like faith.
A hope.
An innocence
that will burn warm
in the dead of hoary winter.
As the cold
shatters first fragile illusions
and then it breaks believers;
snapping them like icicles
into pieces
on the frozen ground.
It is all fake,
all fabricated.
The sturdy words
have been stolen
and only thin reeds
of flaunt and filigree
remain to prop up the past
of this wounded, wanton age
and the man that made it so,
has been buried in his ashes.
Burned for warmth,
his imagery and aspirations.
Spent like pennies,
all his hopes
and perfect prose.
Now,
all he has left is illusion,
so I imagine,
he imagines,
that he was better than his word
and he imagines a smile on her face.
One last brilliant lie.
HG – 2016
