Tag Archive | lies

Take Refuge


The self-appointed mighty
stand upon precarious pedestals
of judgment and power,
built from the ruins
of what could have been.

They placate the people
with empty platitudes
and false promises,
just enough to quell
their concerns
and keep them
from questioning
the hidden agendas
they do not want known.

The weak are so willing
to worship at this
looming altar of illusion,
carrion for the vultures
to fill their already
bloated bellies.

They spew proclamations
of progress carefully
crafted to deceive,
like snake oil
peddlers of old,
they sell their lies
and the people buy
without question,
it’s easier than thinking
for themselves.

They drink the Kool-Aide
while begging for more
even as the poison
consumes them.

A surrender of self
is underway,
conform or be cast out,
set adrift in a dying sea.

Stand up and be shot down,
speak up and be silenced.

You have the
right to listen
but no longer
the right to speak,
unless of course,
you’re reading
from their script.

They’ve lined
the citizens up,
filed them into
a maze, all
vying for some
non-existent prize.

Misguided and
delusional, dropped
into an inescapable
labyrinth, lab rats
bending to the will
of their captors,
easily manipulated,
completely expendable.

The puppet masters drool
as they watch their folly,
not even knowing
they’re attached to strings too.

With feigned disdain
they watch the innocent suffer,
quantifiable loss is ignored.

Mindless masses
frolic like fools,
but there’s a storm coming
and they refuse to take refuge.

The weatherman says
it will pass them by,
the weatherman is always right,
except when he’s wrong.

There’s a storm coming
and it’s going to rain.

Oh, how it will rain.

Crystal R. Cook

Subjective Variation . . .

I have pretty honest kids, I really do. It’s fairly rare I catch them being untruthful . . . one of them though, he blurs the line between honesty and deception every now and then. For instance, my coconut waters go missing, I find the empty containers in his room.

Me: “Stop taking my drinks.”

Him : “I didn’t.”

Me: “I found the empty cans in your room!”

Him: “Those are old.”

Me: “Old as in yesterday?”

Him: “I didn’t know they were yours.”

Me: “They are always mine.”

Him: “You didn’t say that this time.”

See, he gets me on technicalities. Empty cans from yesterday, technically old. I put them on the shelf without specifying they were mine (even though they always are) so technically, I didn’t tell him they were not for him. He is a master word weaver, if I could afford it, I would send him to law school. He would make a great lawyer.

When he was in his mid-teens I busted him mid-fib, I no longer remember what he was trying to deny, cover-up, make light of, or get out of, but what he said in a last-ditch effort to worm out of the situation was epic . . .

“It wasn’t a lie, it was just a subjective variation of the truth.”

My son, the smart, witty, and wonderful troll he is, succeeded. I lost my composure and started smiling. At least it was an almost admission he was practicing the art of deception, just a little.


Subjective Variation of the truth


is when
fades into
twilight oblivion

Under crimson skies
delusions arise

Warped visions
we cannot see
play out
in the
static film
that covers
our eyes

Voices whisper
words we can’t
though their
is clear

Truth is
for every
blind eye
to see

The sage
is a jester
selling dementia
like candy
for nothing
more than
your sanity

Crystal R. Cook