Little Kite Poem by Mark Heathcote

We mitigate to the edges of a lie as we conceal it.
Shadow it with our soul's paper kite.
Tugging at the string, tighter and tighter
Oh, little kite, little kite be still, be very still.

Oh, little kite avoids that hurtful-snare.
Never letting go of-that-thing, distancing us
Further and further, evading fresh conflict;
We dance in the air like a royal blue hare.

In ever decreasing circles, maybe we can
Leap those clouds and settle on a gentler current;
And move forward, but "no, you don't."
"No, you don't; " you don't possess that piece of string.

Someone else will always cruelly take-over
And joyously tug with the bare minimum
Of the truth that sliver of string, that string snaps
Ping! And your soul, your heart is forever gone.

Till only the ribbons and bows
Of another lie remain.
Remain in the empty-hands of another, kite puller.