We know
and to know is to invent,
and to invent is to lie.

Poets deal in beautiful lies,
especially when convinced
we are telling the truth.

Not malicious lies,
not the ones meant
to wound or ****.

Call them
improvements
on reality.

Our charm and power
gestate from our inventions.

We take nothing,
add our souls,
engender words
and only expect awe.

The kind of awe that sends
dresses, skirts or pants
tumbling toward the floor.

The kind of awe that
grows roses in their hearts.

We call that romance,
another invention
that becomes a dance.

Dance with me
and I will whisper
the sweetest lies
I can invent.

You deserve nothing less
than very my best.

Relax, sweet lover.
Don't be afraid.

The lies that
I invent for you
have always been,
and always will be,
true.

  ~mce