Truth, Well Disguised

How odd it is
to survive the end,
and now, all these years later,
to see your stories emblazoned
and embellished,
with only the names and truth changed,

unrecognizable to the innocent eye,
not so changed that you cannot still feel
the spike of betrayal
as fresh as the moment it first
split your heart,
scattering it like iron ashes

that had to be gathered,
one by tiny one, years
in the reconstruction
not to it’s original imperfection,

but to an imperfection new,
more broken, more tender,
a piece of art, almost like,
but not ever, quite.

About this poem

What do you do when something innocuous triggers a memory well buried, and raises it like a living corpse to haunt you again? If you are lucky, the painful moment will drift away on the summer wind. If you are not, it will crawl into your bed and freeze your soul. And if you are strong, you can stand, and like Christ and the demons, send it fleeing into the streets like the bully it is.

Tom

PS – The photograph is of a sculpture at the Metal Museum in Memphis. TN.  Crafted by J. C. Christy, it has the improbable name of “Djoofoegitchoreshoos?”