The lies sleep in shadows.
The lies sleep in those out the way places.
The lies sleep fitfully, studiously forgotten.
The lies sleep
lightly.

And once they stir,
twice they rise,
they yawn from beneath the bedding
and in one swift movement
they swing both feet out
onto the cold wood floor.

They refuse the hurried attempt
to bundle them back under the covers,
and they emerge from the 15.0 togged duvet
limb by long limb.
They stand, uncovered and,
keen to catch the morning light,
they pick up their waiting palette.

Undaunted by the challenge before them,
they face the twelve by twelve canvas
and with confident, sweeping arcs
create a vivid pain-scape,

their striking detail draws attention
to each scar,
to each blemish
which for so long hid, masked
by a thin white wash.

And as the lies paint their picture,
they sing.
They sing a ballad filled with beauty,
with sadness
and hope.
And, once heard, every word
becomes absorbed into each brush stroke,
bringing new depth to the colours.

As the lies paint and sing
they appear to radiate a warmth,
inexcusibly bringing new light to bear
on our carefully composed story,
a story once tailored to cover our shame,
but ill-fitting now.

As the lies paint and sing,
with an unexpected grace
their naked truth stands,
brush and palette in hand
ready for a fresh canvas.

And overwhelmed
their father walks away
looking for a fresh shadow.