The Truth That Was

It’s often said, ” Artists use lies, to tell the truth…”

Here’s one that I tried in this short poem as The Unreliable Narrator, written as a part of  The Poetry Society, UK. 

The Truth That Was

‘I was the type of the child
Who gazed at the dark sky
And loved the color purple.’
“That I was beautiful
And would own a prince”
They said at Sunday mornings.
“She held amethyst beneath,
Calm in influence,
Mellifluous in tone and
seraphic her smile
 Always gentle, Always polite.”
The truth that was
I will not tell you
why she loved that loneliness.
And would lie all about
the pleasures of being so beautiful.
Those silver beaches which she would reveal
upon her birth, instead those violent storms.
And the one on white horse
who mend her crumbles
Just to, break it into gazillion other pieces.

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