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My Fate's Enigma in a Stained Glass |
The crooked man's aura
oversees the vast meridian
of my body's intemperate wave
through virtual history.
He reflects on primal moments
while building a monument
of little white lies,
calling himself fate
(with a capital "F")
itself, the font of ages
too impressive by far
in social media cyberlinks.
There many scuttle each other in
a vast welter of back-stabbing
revelry for the personally vain.
In the monitor's dark glare
I see my face superimposed
over the crooked man's words,
knowing no sentence is eternal
for the resurrection of truth
old deceit is living
behind
my eyes'
blank screen
copyright 2018
Peter
Magliocco |
