Pretense

There are sins amid the cool tranquilityof silver hours that seemed not so once,Before the birth of stale fidelity,thoughts kept low, and though we imitatethe eccentric genius of the incorruptible gods, the preposterous surmise of karmic law still speaks easy of forbidden tantric treasures High above our measure and deepbeneath our patient love, beats passiontapped Not without caution must we frame ourevery thought lest we buck the current fashionand speak our mind to everyone We enchantthose we love with the mournful psalm of slow predictability and pretend the song we sing Fools the sweet and piteous dove,Sent from the living to the living, we danceour lives away, rarely taking time to washthe ashes of bridges burned while Playing the sweet and simple, honest, ugly liar;We rarely fool Anyone but ourselves.