Lies.

by sara ence, april '06

Observation proved sorry results.
Skeptical to face truth,
I searched for reason not to believe it.
Impossible.

Attention starved and control desperate,
his slow, steady downfall began.
Not today, but too long ago.
A self-destructive collapse
no one predicted or
could stop if they wanted,
even if he wanted.

Small lies slipped into subconscious truths:
hypnotizing good judgment and memory,
paralyzing all ability to recount
what happened, remember
who said what,
when it happened,
or if it had happened at all.

Creating fantasy, writing his tale
the way he wanted it to be,
the way he thought people wanted it to be.
Willing to forfeit reputation for
translucent shields of deception and deceit.
Only so people would think he’s the best,
the manliest, most outgoing, bravest.

Being anything else would be surrender,
so much more faceable than
what they would think if he weren't fake.

Time wasted on a person he's not,
development of truth absent.

The art of mask creation perfected through
through pathetic stories growing into bigger
and better outlandish coincidence, altogether
banning him from what he could be living,
why he was living. Why was he living?

Someday, he'll vanish into nothing,
forfeiting pure, imagined joy to years of fantasy.
Left with regret, anxiety, and empty stories -
Was he the best? Did he convince?
What is he now?

A lie.