Is it an illusion,

Is it an illusion,

A version of events,

A truth we tell,

To sleep soundly.

How different would it be

For you

To look at me

And see another story.

Will I come out of it well.

It is so hard to know

When the questions

We ask of our selves

Should always be

Difficult to answer.

Does the opacity

The veil through which

The world is filtered

Mean we have other truths

Swirling within

The deep dark pool.

Hidden for the most part,

But never too far away

From the tender reaches

Of the heart.

There is constancy

An insistent presence.

Inconsiderate reminders

Crashing the gate at every party

And keeping us

From straying too far

Away from the outer edge,

Toward centre stage.

From performer,

To apologetic wallflower,

A full script change

In the flick of a switch.

The blink of an eye.

Held to account

For the want of belief

And the meaning of which

We are never quite sure.

But we do understand

The experience

Of whispering campaigns,

Waged against our

Own good opinion.

The internal wrangle,

A vinyl gloss,

Covering every angle

And painting us into a corner.

Nothing lasts for ever,

Even the vessel

That sustains our

Fragile soul,

Is so full of cracks

It is in danger of running dry

Before the journey’s done.

And whatever

The truth of things,

Beware,

The purpose of misdirection

Is to affect

An arc of misperception.

If you do not believe

All you have been told

Set a precedent,

Listen to the narrative again,

Never travel on automatic,

Engage the gears,

Use your brain.

Pull out a schematic,

You have a drawer full of them,

Not overly different,

But closer to a truth.

Or the book of your life

Will be written,

With the rhetoric of regret

In every page

And pressed between

Dried leaves

Of disappointment.