Skin of glass, lips of rubies,

Porcelain pastes of bitter bruises.

A careful beauty

Hides the lies

That lie within

The bones of you.

Except there are many,

Many who

Paint on bright eyes

That wash away.


A height that’s not tall, complexion

That’s not fair, the only


Is the lie you wear.


But lies,

They grow.

Multiply, intensify,

Violent infection of


My mind.

A plague that twists


And sharper

Until an unlit

Room drips drops of



Invading the caverns that

Comprise my soul,

Your lies transform.

They merge and blend

with thoughts of mine,

Till the wind that blows

Out of my


Is dry.


Bitter words, they crack.

But brittle facts, they die—

Into an afterlife

Of purity and white,

Is no body,

But words.

Empty words.

Shells of promises

And compliments,

Hold the only innocence

In an ebony world.


A white sheep in dry grass,

Only falls.

No nearer does it get

To life,

But to death.


So let us wear feathers of condors

To show the candor   

That we can hold.

In this dying

desert we look into,  

Reveal the mask,

Before I unmask you.


This poem is about: 
Our world


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