Prevaricate -
that’s what he called it,
but his mouth choked
on the dust
of so many lies;
not a sod of compassion
to hold a smile in place,
nor a flicker of remorse,
across that handsome face

Menacing clouds of distrust
boiled up in the sky
and rolled like moving mountains,
powerfully, swiftly into the storm’s eye.
When the fine layer of truth fell
it covered everything
like a thin veneer -
draped over a densely woven mat
of deceit and lies.

She gloated
as a sudden silt of sadness
gagged his throat,
watching
as the drought of denial lifted,
draining disbelief from his face -
extirpating all joy;
birthing pain in it’s wake.
The visage had begun to crack

Slowly, like the desiccated mud of a mask
his face crumbled,
his shoulders crumpled
stature slumped -
realization ravaged his equanimity.
Counterfeited and caged
entrapped by his exposure’s rage
he confessed:

- “Tis true - I love the maid.”

BB 23 November, ‘10