The Dancer on the Sill

“Is it true that you can steal portraits from nature as well?”

She did not immediately acknowledge the question, but continued to stare intently at the raindrops breaking off the window sill. I had the unsettling feeling that she could see something that I was clearly missing. I followed her gaze, resting my eyes on the very edge of the window. The rain was breaking into a hundred different miniscule rubies and sapphires where it touched the concrete, shining in the light borrowed from the low flame of the hurricane lamp. Indeed, there seemed to be a fatalistic beauty in it all, with just a sheen of hope to delude the unsuspecting daydreamer.

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More than meets the lie

Untruth, once said, is a burden:

On my mind that must keep track
Lest it should lose itself wandering
In the wilderness of imagination;

On my heart that must beat louder
To drown the cry of conscience
Till it chooses to speak no more;

On my eyes that must keep open
Against the weight of shame
That pulls them to the ground;

And on my truth that had to be hidden
Because it was not good enough.