Lies

A pretty daffodil looked in the mirror
And died mortgaging its stamen
To the traders’ floor.
The man on the street
Dressed in khaki and black and
The smell of urine
Doesn’t remember the promise of
Television ads.
No. He remembers the truth of
Harsh wine and eyes betrayed by age
And dying kidneys.
Still he tells himself of a future
Where his guitar will charm
People sitting in front row seats
Or listening with closed eyes in their living room.
And tomorrow I will awake,
Lies the Buddhist sage.
Is the only beginning
The three year old’s eyes
As he looks in the mirror surprised,
And the only end a broken uncle
Pissing himself in a wheelchair
With no more requests of forgiveness to ask his son.
We salute you truth,
For you are an impossible master.

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