The tree blues and sky greens of
paper break and iron tore.
Man's true sense of truth
there and then and now no more.
And my pedantic peers,
cloaked in masks of sorrow smiles and happy tears,
evoke this deceit through this fear --
an eye of another: his friend,
his soul mate, his father, his brother.
And our town's visage,
so badly bruised by vice of half-truth and lie --
blind and deaf to the helpless little girl,
and my pencil's silent cry,
and how the little boy's molded by
the book learns,
and how sore it is when the broken promise burns.
But for all this my heart bled its end --
the child's grown and now too dons their fright.
Will they ever find their truth in woven words? Or
perhaps better sought upon the velvet of the dark'ning night
Oh so seldom we are who we are because
of what might be said or could be seen,
that nothing's what it should be and
no-one's who they should've been.
