Transfigured by the slant of my pen,
a gathering of family, friends, and old nemises
lined up on legal pads and swimming
in the ink of my point of view,

Defenseless against a ten cent BIC,
they hunker there in their rewritten history,
It’s unintentional of course, but I have never suffered
from objectivity.  Confined to paper

 the proudest one is humbled, the rest exposed.
I could have them bound, a haunting thought;
instead, I take them to the firepit, and with only
a second’s hesitation

I light the corner of a random page, watch it curl
into oblivion. At peace, I watch the smoke of half truths
spiral and swirl,  then fade long before
they get to heaven.

 

 

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