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Poem



The clock ticks on, a witness cold and stark,
To tales constructed in the fading dark.
A web of words meticulously spun,
To shield the truth, the damage that was done.

An alibi, a carefully placed stone,
To build a wall where guilt can stand alone,
Or seem to stand detached and far away,
While shadows cling to fragments of the day.

What fragile threads compose this woven lie?
A borrowed moment beneath a borrowed sky.
A phantom presence somewhere else defined,
A fabrication etched upon the mind.

Does it absolve, this carefully designed
Departure from the scene, the truth behind?
Or merely shift the gaze, deflect the blame,
A flickering candle in a guilty flame?

The weight of absence where one ought to be,
A hollow echo for the world to see.
The silent questions that begin to bloom,
Within the spaces of the fabricated room.

And what of those enlisted in the play?
Unwitting actors forced to blindly say
The lines provided bolstering the fake,
A fragile trust that starts to bend and break.

The alibi, a shield against the storm,
But does it truly keep the conscience warm?
Or does the chill of falsehood penetrate,
Leaving a barren landscape desolate?

For truth, a persistent seed, may lie concealed,
But cracks will form, the artifice revealed.
The carefully constructed walls will fall,
And silence speak the loudest truth of all.

So ponder deeply on this crafted guise,
This fragile fortress built on whispered lies.
The alibi, a testament to fear,
A desperate whisper that the truth is near.

©bfa040825

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