He told one lie inside one sentence—
A capital letter, a comma, a period—
To stop the darts inside their eyes
With tips of poison traced with flesh
From the man before.
He carried his lie like a shield—
A bouche, an umbo, a coat of arms—
To hide the head he held up high
A posturing of dignity and pride
Like a murderer walking free.
His arm was heavy with the weight—
Sinews tearing, sweating, fatigued—
So he told one more to add to the other
Deflecting, like a reflection of fire
He picked up his finger like a steely blade—
A quillon, a foible, a forte—
To thrust accusations dripping with blood
Into the flesh of the men within his reach
Below his cutting edge.
He grasped at a pain inside his chest—
A palpitation, a flutter, a squeeze—
To arrest the cardiac aberration
That pumped with compassion
And wrenched out
His beating liability.
He opened his mouth and told one more—
A series, a novel, a narrative—
To let the drips of his life smear their faces
With draining blood
His heart deflated like a balloon.
The chill of the air blew through his flesh
And hardened his skin into
No longer a He but now an It,
It gathered the furs of the men
At his feet
And wrapped their death around
It told one lie and built a fortress—
An isolation, a prison, a cage—
To insulate itself from the arrows
It feared would leak its life
Its own instead.
–Jill Szoo Wilson
(Photo Credit: This story was inspired by German painter Heiko Müller‘s piece, Fur http://www.heikomueller.de)