Ode to you, treader of watery pathways

you who march steadily over foaming sea

and waltz with your lover over cresting tides.

Proud maiden, with hair like flowing ink -

calloused hands and sharp tongue to level foolish ego,

eyes azure like deep ocean trenches that will rest on no man’s face.

Oh, seafarer,

weather-worn and wind-beaten,

standing powerful and alluring in the eyes of your kindred soul:

Where is your home?

Sing of you, then, lady of the sky!

Fleeting and fluttering in the wind,

ever drifting, ever changing, ever out of reach.

Child of air, light-footed danseuse,

lover of salty breezes that fill your lover’s sails:

passionate yet unconcerned of currents or destinations.

Oh, life-luster,

fickle as weather,

blooming ever delicate under the ocean’s sun:

Who watches over you?

Anchorless anchor-lass,

flighty fille:

Sail on in tandem,

sapphic couplet,

complementary pelagica.

no one really seems to know what lies are

but I always have, ever since I was young.

if you ask anyone what a lie is,

they will only be able to tell you what it does:

ensnares the mind, like a vine choking life from a tree

seemingly immune to the blades of the gardener’s shears.

no one ever describes the way they grow

seeds planted in the heart that grow into great blooms.

for lies can certainly be beauty.

I like to think mine will grow long after I am gone.

my lies glow with all the light of the setting sun,

and they are blacker than the blackest night.

like flowers, indeed, as intricate as roses

and just as painful to grasp.

each buds and unfolds on a silver tongue

invited yet unwelcome, detested as an adulterous lover.

one by one, they are plucked and put in a vase

displayed, like art or music by those who hear them

until the finality of decay claims them.

every stem climbs my throat to strangle me

scraping my mouth raw and bleeding,

painting more roses red for the picking.

my lies are far too painful for pride,

but they are all I have to offer.