puppet birds

you always try to elevate circumstances to a symbolic level,
turn them into metaphors studded with pearls of universal wisdom;
you make the same mistake over and over again:
you gild the all-too-often, you mourn
the tragedy turned grotesque by the breaking news,
you seek meaning in the rant of fools,
you commiserate with the icy despair
of those who cannot love
and pretend they are heartbroken.

sometimes facts are just facts: they are not the truth;
they are the premise from which minds weave reactions and 
map the road to follow in response to what is expected of them
not according to their own nature but to the rules of the many,
to the blueprint of the maze they were born into,

waiting for the puppet birds above your head to come alive,

to spread wings and fly.
you keep saying you would die for truth;
you believe it is essential - a gift 
worthy of your love for those you cherish - family, friends;
you cannot see that your quest for truth, the constant delving
into the black maggot-filled earth of family secrets
casts the beam of madness over your honest face.

you see redemption for those who seek none;
they lie to you; they’ve lied to you before;
it is how they survived your idealism,
it is how they watched your fall without blinking:
they believed you deserved it as punishment
for not being able to fit in - an isolated case,
outlandish, theatrical - the predictable story of a born loser.

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