Perhaps the phrasing of the lie
Was not the full extent
Of where the circumstances led
Where purity was sent

But cast an eye of perfect scorn
Your scrutiny entwined
In reams of everlasting love
And poetry unsigned

It’s not the art of sanity
Transgressed upon my part
But merely sensibility
Refusing to take heart

And if I’ve used this line before
Forgive an old cliché
That drips soft from my silver tongue
Unhidden but betrayed

So ask the critics as they fall
Upon my book of lies
Which deeds of mediocrity
Did each verse plagiarise

Yet if I stand accused of hope
I’ll solemnly declare
That truth was always spoken of
With no poetic flair

In doggerel or clichéd trite
I formed the catalyst
That wormed its slinky silver tongue
Between the lips you pressed
Upon the rose that only blooms
When Venus fills the air
With seeds of latent wanting that
We scatter everywhere

my culture slipped
as we walked down
fish lane, past girls
with the short skirts
and Hellenic sandals

pasithea sang from
doorways, offending
those who had already
given of the brightness
and now felt pale from
want and wishing

street cafes bustled
then cups shattered
as coffee beans
were ground
into one last
cappuccino

then just in time
I stepped back
into character