A Clever Piece of the Devil’s Art

Bones on a table. In a museum.
Vaguely familiar, not quite human.
Art perhaps. That’s the pretention
and I am in no place to deny it,
far less original than most,
not quite a scholar, I find myself
looking, seeking patterns.
Is this a backbone? Is this a femur?
They are, almost, but not quite,
and I see them as my demons,
those morning visitors that lie to me
each and every morning. Almost human,
just enough to urge belief, close enough
you have to pause, think, force yourself
to understand they are nothing more
than art of a heart damaged young
and never quite healed.

Not healed, but beyond wounded.
Able to pause, to seek the pattern of bones
and lies and find the truth, the lies
so many who claimed love for me persisted
in beating me with. The demons too, claim love,
but like the bones on the table,
they are not quite human, a clever piece
of the devil’s art. Beautiful lies
that take time to discern,

Once you see the artist’s trick,
you can marvel at the slight of hand
the cleverness of the magician
who cares more for the illusion
than the beauty of the real.

About this poem

It’s been a week of fighting depression. Knowing I will come out on the other side, but still, the battle must be fought and the day to day work must be done. Part of my weaponry is the remembering of victories past – in my case 20 some odd years of those victories. Part of it is bible reading. Part of it is the writing of poetry and the touch of those that love me.

All that is like a magnifying glass that helps me see the beauty of the real. That we all are beloved Children of God, and therefore of far more worth than our demons pretend. So the poem is about that.

We live in a time where politicians, along with media and our own deep rooted fears create illusions and lies that undercut the most important fact of all – that we are stronger when we give grace, compromise and live as if we are all important.

Poetry is never about one thing.

The picture is from The New York Museum of Modern Art. The table was full of “bones” that looked real until you started to try, mentally, to put them together.

Trust your value. It is real.

Tom