Quiet lies

I lie to myself

more than I care to admit

Like a secret garden of poppies

ripe opium

Like ancient hazy dens

brimming with dazed men

and women dressed of an evening

hushed and speaking

in delicate tongues to minds well altered

I change my mind

rarely

Fall out of love

never

Where I graze my knees

then my tibia snaps

and my spine follows suit

The bells toll in the chapel

and I do not argue

though I quietly complain

about broken bones

and this heart that shivers in warm waters

Again, I lie

shush truths like women

of the night

soothing troubled waters

and taking fingers in mouths

For all the strength I have gathered

in cane baskets laced over arms

I may be capable of carrying mountains

If not mountains

perhaps

cathedrals

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