The last lie
It isn't you, she said It's me And set her fabrication free. Revealed that covert expertise In jubilant solemnity In the art of feigned, half-flattery. And yet I look on powerless still dumbstruck by her vanity Awestruck by her deftly dealt delivery And stuck witness to the source of the sincerest insincerity. Without the cause to be discreet Or need to pause for gritted teeth But still of course with all those things that set the stricken surface glistening, things that leave my stomach twisting now that I'm no longer listening through the blissful mist of misshearing the whisperings of her enmity beneath. Yet the unmistakeable self-loathing hides behind the bloated boasting. Floating dizzy then dragged under by the tide that's still eroding, gnawing silent at the sides. Once lustrous, impregnable armour now lies turned to salt and oxide, and the flesh beneath the tarnished gilt so bruised I barely recognise her rusted, warped reflection. The mirror in who's crippled waters every smile avoids detection. The now ugly face in whom i once saw perfect imperfection. Christian Howes 2017
