I am not good at deception, like it not one whit,
prefer the straight and narrow and my plans to admit.
Value in dissimulation, and keeping cards near,
though I know cunning’s value, disdain opaque for sheer.
I enjoy storytelling, weaving worlds whole-cloth,
and acting a candle while around me flit moths.
Make-believe is dandy, fiction’s fun to create,
when stories become lies they can eviscerate.
My mother hated liars, held great stock in the truth,
if she caught me dissembling she’d go right through the roof.
It’s in a need for certainty that my distaste abides,
fragile is the structure built on framework of lies.
Back in the Eighteenth Century lived a man Benedict,
Washington trusted Arnold, whose name’s now derelict.
Infamous for treachery, he’s now synonymous
for a deceitful liar whose words you cannot trust.
Now I’m stuck in a hard place, between a rock and stone,
deception’s eating at me, disturbs me to the bone.
I long for green pastures, the simple things in life,
and this constant role-playing’s causing me such strife.
Longing for the moment when I cast off sophistry,
embrace the simple truth and set shamming soul free.
Manumission’s at my fingertips, at tip of my tongue,
but though I can see, feel, taste it still to deceit I’ve clung.
People counting on me who think that I’m all in,
when asked for affirmation, I just nod and grin.
I’ve no desire to hurt them but must protect my flank,
because if I come clean too soon my future will be sank.
I just grin and bear it though it tears me up inside,
this deceit by omission is sin my soul can’t abide.
Bonhomie of hearty handshake and flash of pearly whites
puts me in mind of Great Whites about to take a bite.
Perhaps tomorrow morning I’ll receive a sign,
do my best to honor truth, abandon foul designs.
But right now, I’m still in prison, longing to be free
and I’m the only warden with power to release me.