Repercussions more fierce
than the fabled percussions,
smug smugglers of my stories
painting fiction as fact
with broad Picasso brush-
strokes, or maybe Van
Gogh lying about the sky,
Aesop never had a fable
for this level of
betrayal, a performance
slaying the actors onstage, house
lights dead, everything obscured
except the violence of the lie,
displayed in half-light,
shadows of truth
dying inside it.
Rembrandt never knew
chiaroscuro like this;
Dante running in circles
painted by Blake,
until I’m sprawled
on a pin
in Satan’s mouth.
About the Creator
Harper Lewis
Intrusive rhyme bothers me, except as a weapon.
Intertextuality is my passion.
Formalist/ New Critical are my guiding theories.
My words are mine, not a robot’s.
MA English literature, CofC
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