The Crying Games

Had the truth sought to find its convictions

in matters of soluble substances, it should have

searched the properties in the salt of a lonely basal tear,

But the truth of the matter is — it shades itself in the sand,

and the sand insoluble, irritates the truth — a reflex hammer,

the truth obscured

sterilizes its colours in the tinctured periodic table

of elemental iodine

The stability of the truth, rolls on the rickety feet of a tear,

it dries on the run beneath the nares of a freckled sun —

the crying games —

it wins the race by the skin of its indentured teeth, the

halogen afterglow of the traitorous spate to perdition—

A far cry— of a rosy hue — viewed through the lens of a hiccup —

the intermission interrupted by the salted truth, on

the buttoned wings of the lie —

cries foul — hyperbole curves the road,

calling truth the greatest liar of all —isn’t that a crying shame?

I was brought to the brink of a tear.

Copyright @. R Tsambounieri Talarantas. May 24, 2020. All Rights Reserved.