Folly

I know it to be folly,

but I won't stop.

When memories

don’t match mirrors,

science steps in

(as if on cue).

No need to act all saintly.

You’re wrestled with this demon,

chose a different track.

Feigned happiness.

Put on airs.

Said you’d never do as me,

but it’s an act,

a jealous thing,

mired in empty fears

and poverty.

Bones grow brittle,

faces crack,

and all that’s left

are tightly held beliefs

we once thought truth,

now shattered,

scattered

like pebbles on a riverbank

with time's river rushing by.

There are no angels here,

and vanity cannot save us.

But it will make the descent

a little prettier.

This was written for Sunday Scribblings 2 and The Sunday Whirl.