Lies Poem by Charl JF Cilliers

Art is a lie that makes us realise the truth.
Pablo Picasso

Lies that protect,
whose object it is to deflect
pain, longing, disillusionment,
that are seemingly intent
on keeping from harm, wanting to heal
what is not yet a wound,
like sounds woken from sleep
that become as real
as whole words
that yet cannot reveal
the spark, the first embers:
for no word ever remembers
that burning inside
– long gone – the why, the hopeful surprise
of the best of intentions that gave rise
to the wound which is only
a wound to the one who slowly dies
with no visible mark on the skin,
who cannot begin to heal
from the absence of a wound
that is seemingly truth made so real.