PostPoems Be Artistic. Be Creative. Be Inspired!

 

 

 

 

A Parable of Painted Truths

 

 

I. The Privileged Perspective

 

 

In my gilded cage of crystalline lies,

 

I dance with a pink ostrich 'neath opalescent skies.

 

My wheelchair gleams with polished pride,

While others' struggles I deride.

 

 

    Such delicious power in words that wound,

 

    Like poisoned honey, sweetly round.

 

    (For who would doubt a voice like mine?

 

    When privilege and pain intertwine.)

 

 

 

 

II. The Betrayed Friend's Lament

 

 

My cat lies suffering, grey and thin,

 

While memories of friendship wear so thin.

 

Twenty-five years of shared delight,

 

Now scattered like moths in endless night.

 

    No comfort comes from one who knew

 

 

    The depth of bonds between us two.

 

    Instead, she spins her gossamer tales,

 

    Of greed and need that never was.

 

 

        (The truth drowns in her waterfall of lies,

 

        While my beloved companion slowly dies.)

 

 

 

 

III. The Flood's Memory

 

 

 

When waters rose like serpents vast,

 

 

And savings slipped into the past,

 

 

Fifty dollars—thrown like crumbs

 

 

To one whose world had come undone.

 

 

 

    Now twisted into weapons sharp,

 

 

    These memories play a bitter harp.

 

 

    While trauma's tendrils grip my core,

 

 

    She stands and slams each closing door.

 

 

 

IV. The Ostrich's Warning

 

 

(In whispered, clicking tones)

 

 

Crikey, listen close, you privileged soul,

 

 

Your lies may seem to make you whole,

 

 

But like my feathers—once so pink and bright—

 

 

Your truth is bleaching in harsh daylight.

 

 

 

    Each fabrication that you weave

 

 

    Returns to make your world deceive.

 

 

    Until your words, though sugar-sweet,

 

 

    Lie rotting at your pristine feet.

 

 

 

 

V. The Universal Chorus

 

 

 

Truth echoes in the spaces between,

 

 

Where liars' words have never been.

 

 

Though silver tongues may sparkle bright,

 

 

They tarnish in truth's revealing light.

 

 

 

    For those who weave deception's dance,

 

 

    Lose more than just a passing glance—

 

 

    When truth at last demands its due,

 

 

    No soul will trust what once rang true.

 

 

 

 

VI. The Revelation

 

 

(In scattered whispers)

 

 

She walks in manufactured grace,

 

 

A mask of kindness on her face,

 

 

While underneath, the shadows crawl

 

 

And empathy begins to fall.

 

 

 

    The pink ostrich watches, knowing well

 

 

    Each fabricated tale she'll tell.

 

 

    Its feathers fade with every lie,

 

 

    Until all colour starts to die.

 

 

 

        For in the end, what's left to gain

 

 

        When truth becomes a source of pain?

 

 

        The liar stands in splendid gold,

 

 

        Believed by none, forever cold.

 

 

 

In memory of a cat who deserved more than silence,

 

 

And for those whose stories were twisted into thorns.