Friday, April 26, 2019


old and buried
stories never told to anyone
too deeply underground
covered with a carpet of lies
covered with a blanket of self-delusion
the youth we were
the myths and legends
we convinced ourselves of
it Was the way it was
no questions
how complicated life is once the web is wound
and we are caught in sticky tendrils
of our own extrusion
struggling for a moment
then giving in to the inevitable

it becomes easy to erase the realities of the past
and blanket them with sweet nothings
they become like ancient puzzles
pieces worn
edges chipped and rounded
lost memories packed away
in the attic of childhood
the picture no longer whole
shapes purposely whittled away to fit
the narrative we chose

and what of Truth?
what of the bright and shining verities?
the open innocent candor?

ghosts materialize before our eyes
their shades displaying forgotten honor
the death of love and trust overshadowing
sparkling lie
distracting all with a believable fiction
and that’s what we lived with all these years
only now recognizing what we’ve done
the righteous reality revealed
in all its unremembered splendor

we were innocent once
but took that to the grave
of our youth and indecision
we made up our minds
to remember the alterations
not the original garment
like making a disguise
out of costume
out of whole cloth

like a naked emperor
whose story is finally done

© 2019 pamela twining