Mendacity

Sometimes real things vanish.
Their shadows linger on as an echo of a scream.
A scream, a tear, a torn thing.
Once true; now lies.

Sometimes True things aren't.
They're masqueraded and pretended. Masked by friends,
Also pretenders, and all their children run and hide and
Vomit and die.

Sometimes I'm the falsehood.
And a slough of self deceiving flattery flows through my fingertips.
But not my True and Real and Self alone
lies floundering in my dereliction.
I release my mendacious
offspring and they
fly; I will not
be the only
one to
cry.