By JH Sayyar
O silken voice that cloaks truth in grace,
With eyes shimmer while they shift the tale,
You weave deceit with such enchanting face,
That even truth would doubt its own travail.
Your lies wear lace, not iron, soft and fine,
A whispered breeze where thunder ought to be;
They bloom like roses curling 'round the vine,
And bleed their scent through hearts unknowingly.
Yet though your art may trick the keenest mind,
And sows confusion with a siren’s smile,
The soul you fool is yours, in time, to find
Truth haunts its mask, if only for a while.
So paint the tale, but know beneath each hue,
The echo waits: “the lie has lied to you.”
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