I lied to you. Said I was merely a clown
walking idly down the aisle
towards that cross of burden,
boundaries I could never properly define
now wallow beside me
like a plucked duck
ripe for a run run — roasting. Fumes
from that furnace of oblivion
tinge every Sunday sermon.
I lied to you. That door you searched for
was never locked, the frock of fools
and the red nose
simple lies — that I chose
out of spite, to render anew
their severed garden.