How I can disbelieve you when you look so earnest?
Touting your truth like cosmetic surgery,
painting foundation with the masterstroke
of an artisan crafting the layer of self deceit,
to be viewed as prima facie.
Truth can be seen in the artefacts you leave behind,
the remnant of a former life – memory discarded for
the events which shape your right-now-or-bust destiny.
Baby, I’m with you, all the way,
preying on ‘till death do us part'.
Divorce is not the laureate little death, rather
the quick bang and the buck of courtroom art.
Thankyou - maybe -
for the disillusioning tale you spun for me,
narrated in the post mortem of our story tree,
wooden and dry, timber-flake inconsistency.
Seriously. No, make that, Really.
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