I ran into a neighbor outside the building.
She said, “I read your poem today.”
We made some small talk, politics
chit-chat that only Washingtonians
care about. I steered the small talk back.
“So how did you like my poem?”
She said, “It sounded bitter, but I understood.”
I smiled and thought to myself: perhaps
twelve revisions would have made it sweeter.
Trapped in a purgatory
of their own conceit…
The web of lies they weave
gets tighter and tighter
in its deceit
until it bottoms out -
at a very low frequency -
It may be just a matter of perception –
they can’t undo their wrongs
for fear it’d undermine their
perceived authority –
an authority they think they require
to stay in charge.
Yet all the while,
the more they talk,
the more they lie,
and the deeper down the hole they go.
There’s nothing I need to go back to -
nothing to re-litigate -
nothing to defend -
and certainly nothing to prove
to the unworthy.
just wait and feed them rope.