Worn cloth albeit of beads and sequins,
Woven and interlaced of a distinct textile.
Custom made for the vile creature,
Who dons an impostrous smile,
In hopes that the fox will cry.
Leads his flock to an arid desert,
Fruitless and impoverished,
Where lioness grow manes.
They walk the beat.
Only lull speaks volumes.
River stream a horizon’s touch away,
These parched lips quiver.
Vinegar is the taste,
Just before it all vanishes.
Is this a mirage gone awry?
Do you add insult to my confusion?
No stench of ignorance here,
This is not bliss!
Walking this cracked surface,
Naked in truth and integrity,
And you stride alongside,
Clothed in deceit and dishonesty,
I visualize ending this,
Antagonizing relay race.
The baton shall fall.
Forthrightness always creeps in,
Like an innocent child,
Waiting anxiously to be held.
No revelation to my enemies,
Will be made.
You are never to kiss this cheek.
Despair has left a scar upon my back,
A colossal pillar of strength,
Materializes within me.
Samson you are not.
Weakness becomes you,
And withering is imminent.
Impending arrests are for naught,
The army has retired.
Bare will be the palm of your hands,
For there are no pieces of silver,
(c) Monica St Hillaire, 2021.