by LJ Frank

the worn covering of a celluloid edition

edges flayed by years from sweaty minds

a life short by the time it’s lived

I’ve noticed staying too long indoors

creates a myth of not belonging

though self-disclosure is always a risk

the lie becomes the reality

and a post truth moves into an overcrowded room

the original is now in a revised format

and knowledge is on loan

the subtleties of conscience are lost

epiphany like the raw feeling of ice on a warm skin

the wild grasses of speech bytes

a paragraph catches the brain’s eyes

the lower lip in angst bites down

a drop of blood stains the white blouse

the black wool blend is hiked

above the knees of winter

adjusted and exposed

boots covering massaged bruises

a forced grin

Mr. Speaker can you hear me now

the Minister of Justice turns a deaf ear

eyeing the stock market lying on the podium

the man from the Street becomes richer by the hour

the sanctuary is no more

passport updated with fewer places to go

hoping to replenish the soul

stepping over pieces of flesh

lying about

the skeletal remains of the day

eloquence wanting to escape

hidden in the crevices of trust

left over from a previous century

is the Revelation a script of paranoia

or there’s something else altogether

an unknown prophet writes by candlelight

in a language

thought to be deciphered

on an ancient papyrus found in the desert

only to reveal

the misreading.