He told one lie inside one sentence— A capital letter, a comma, a period— To stop the darts inside their eyes With tips of poison traced with flesh And ash From the man before.
He carried his lie like a shield— A bouche, an umbo, a coat of arms— To hide the head he held up high A posturing of dignity and pride But hidden Like a murderer walking free.
His arm was heavy with the weight— Sinews tearing, sweating, fatigued— So he told one more to add to the other Deflecting, like a reflection of fire And blinding Impending conclusions.
He picked up his finger like a steely blade— A quillon, a foible, a forte— To thrust accusations dripping with blood Into the flesh of the men within his reach But falling Below his cutting edge.
He grasped at a pain inside his chest— A palpitation, a flutter, a squeeze— To arrest the cardiac aberration That pumped with compassion And wrenched out His beating liability.
He opened his mouth and told one more— A series, a novel, a narrative— To let the drips of his life smear their faces With draining blood But lifeless His heart deflated like a balloon.
The chill of the air blew through his flesh And hardened his skin into Planks. No longer a He but now an It, It gathered the furs of the men At his feet And wrapped their death around His own.
It told one lie and built a fortress— An isolation, a prison, a cage— To insulate itself from the arrows It feared would leak its life But drained Its own instead.
I am captivated by beauty, questions that dig to the center of things, and people who tell the truth about the human experience.
View all posts by Jill Szoo Wilson
Necessary Whispers 
Beautifully written.
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