The Last Refuge of a Liar

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

 

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