Deceit

The glaring staring eyes of deceit cut through the facade of incomplete denial of existence that is reality.

I hide behind culture to avoid this feeling. Laden myself with adornments of questionable cultural origin.

Like a postmodern society that exists from within projecting itself with adornments thinly selected for their reception not necessarily their intention.

But we can all reappropriate from the past. It’s all laden with deceit. The thin truths which characterise my existence explicitly substitute good for bad.

The pensive memories hang over like a dwelling not frequented. Present, stagnant, forever in my sights, engorging my life like a chamber of doubt.

Clutching to any past which might refute that which is known. The subtle memory of pleasure outshone by that of pain.

Can’t win, can only begin again. But the memories stay the same. Infringing a potential until it shrivels and dies.

Nothing left but deceitful eyes. Never trust another soul when the memory of betrayal is so prominent.

Leave me now, I am hell bent on reclaiming this expense.