I met a composer of true lies once,
Who wrote wonderfully believable lies about me,
Scented with love – or so he said.
But the wind whooshed them all
Off the table
Before I could read them over his shoulder.
Now they hang like plastic bags
On lone branches of autumnal trees.
Shredded, meaningless and unreachable
Except to a ragpicker.
Me.
Jan 1, 2017
Jan 1, 2017 at 1:52 AM UTC
I met a composer of true lies once,
Who wrote wonderfully believable lies about me,
Scented with love – or so he said.
But the wind whooshed them all
Off the table
Before I could read them over his shoulder.
Now they hang like plastic bags
On lone branches of autumnal trees.
Shredded, meaningless and unreachable
Except to a ragpicker.
Me.