Dark Muse
07-31-2014, 01:42 AM
The Nature of Truth
Truth is overrated,
amid the debris
of stale cigarettes
and bad coffee
looking into your glacial eyes,
I ask, what good has it ever done
me?
There is silence,
broken by cracked laughter,
yours or mine?
I have been broken over
the coals for truth,
it blackened my skin,
scorched my throat,
watered my eyes,
and you only smiled
your distant,
fear-reaching smile,
that eludes your eyes.
No,
I want to be covered
in lies, like butterfly kisses,
like the breath of a moth,
just to hear you say something
that is beautiful.
Truth is an empty vase,
it gives only unfulfilled promise,
but lies, they can be ecstasy,
I wish I could bottle them up,
eject them into my skin.
If only there could be
no questions between us,
but in the smallest twitch
of your brow there is inquest,
and everything you say
falls heavy as stones.
We are too diverted,
I want only light and airy things,
diaphanous silk,
and what does it matter to me
if it is all imitation,
as long as it lets me live a moment
in jubilation.
But you are sever,
you demand confessional,
you force me
to be your confessor,
you need to unburden your heart
of your sins.
That is what I resent the most,
you forcing me to see the ugliness
which you insist upon calling virtue,
and it is only for yourself
that you act so.
All I ever wanted
was to live
sensually
to indulge myself
in sentimentality.
Truth is overrated,
amid the debris
of stale cigarettes
and bad coffee
looking into your glacial eyes,
I ask, what good has it ever done
me?
There is silence,
broken by cracked laughter,
yours or mine?
I have been broken over
the coals for truth,
it blackened my skin,
scorched my throat,
watered my eyes,
and you only smiled
your distant,
fear-reaching smile,
that eludes your eyes.
No,
I want to be covered
in lies, like butterfly kisses,
like the breath of a moth,
just to hear you say something
that is beautiful.
Truth is an empty vase,
it gives only unfulfilled promise,
but lies, they can be ecstasy,
I wish I could bottle them up,
eject them into my skin.
If only there could be
no questions between us,
but in the smallest twitch
of your brow there is inquest,
and everything you say
falls heavy as stones.
We are too diverted,
I want only light and airy things,
diaphanous silk,
and what does it matter to me
if it is all imitation,
as long as it lets me live a moment
in jubilation.
But you are sever,
you demand confessional,
you force me
to be your confessor,
you need to unburden your heart
of your sins.
That is what I resent the most,
you forcing me to see the ugliness
which you insist upon calling virtue,
and it is only for yourself
that you act so.
All I ever wanted
was to live
sensually
to indulge myself
in sentimentality.