Each word, when written down, is made of lies
Which buries truth to cleave its master’s heart.
Secrets hide in front of prying eyes
And bitter sorrow masquerades as art.
Tender feelings which we dare not name
We dress as half truths in their Sunday best.
Construct instead a complex verbal game.
Cold solitude becomes this heart’s bequest.
Are shadows doomed to walk this earth alone?
Withheld by fear, love is condemned to blight.
In one not loved the heart may turn to stone
And secrets lost to doubt’s eternal night.
Pen put to page records the poet’s woe
What is the lie in truth not meant to know?


© Nancy Anderson 2007