I heard you’ve taken up honesty
like it’s a new hobby.
Quaint, like gardening or oil painting.
How bold, to dabble in virtue
only when the stakes are gone.

You’ll keep polishing that glass house,
convincing yourself it gleams with clarity,
never noticing the cracks spiderwebbing beneath.
One day, when it all comes crashing down,
you’ll call it a masterpiece
and swear the rubble was art.