Truth Transformed Poem by Yohan Confectioner

Your wheels, turning and circling
Each ego fuelling machine,
Grown bald from selling each strand
Of unchartered hair.

Your gait, slouched in manner but misled
Through your flock of moustached frenzies.
Your parting lips of red,
Joining each syllable of hypocritical highness.

Mirrors mirror a beam, cast a
Score of times, until the perfect pout
Is produced, ready to be posted and liked
By each other beam eagerly investing, to reap its own.

Truth is tucked away in a desolate attic,
With its desolate voice,
Eager to burst through the suspended air,
It has changed its attire.


Truth weeps, Truth weeps!
But its single syllable,
Scraped, burned and twisted from its sinews,
Is Truth transformed.