We are liars, all and often, lying
in folds familiar, hoping
for holds to fill the failure,
settled into settlements
we never wanted but thinking
something, anything, this thing
is better than nothing, while
the Poet prefers to pen
the pessimism than to perish
with it. And still we are liars,
the pen turns thoughts
into reasons, into rough sketches
and in turn we soften the edges
with subtle suggestions
to make the truth more soluble,
the lie more acceptable.
We are all laying in masks
of mistrust, mistruths, the more
we take off- the more we build up.
Clothes cover only the concept
of identity; eyes can be distracted, tongues
can be thought to taste
what they are told, ‘I am forever,’
he said and she licked his longing
that left her not long after. ‘I am
comfort,’ she confided as she set
her claws into his confusion.
And the lie goes on forever,
like the sky; consistently blue
until it’s black, streaked
with bright stars already burning out.
All words and photographs by Damien B. Donnelly