CONFESSION

A lie is like the mortar in an arch of stone.
If built with care
the life of construct & material is the same.
Above a splay of bindii
on the grass outside St Mary's
Gymea Lilies are crosiers.

Our lies are sanctuary, they
are the colour in the glass.
Taint is the heart of light
& story revels in a shroud.

Our lies are mucus -
essential, worrisome.
As heat rises & flowers break out -
mucus, colour & lies.

The best lies
are like those songs
that linger past their life/
stick in the head
beneath the strongest tides of intellect.

Life, family, cash are all built of this,
even as they are torn down.
The closed mouth is a valve.

Christ, lilies & gold plate.
It is not the stone, but the joining
that stands at the heart of shelter.