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.
Jill Szoo Wilson 