The lie I am always telling myself

is a lie of hope

a pretense of seeking

love

"many splendoured"

and shining

for,

I know,

I do not want to be another

one

on the outside looking

in



All men are

Judas

they betray themselves

We sell our souls for

different things

revenge

30 pieces of silver

and sometimes

out of simple ennui



And yet,

all women

are Pontius Pilate

they are almost

merciful,

then wash their hands

of me



But I am not Jesus,

I will not bear his cross,

nor his thorny crown,

neither do I wish to be a martyr

and die

stoically,

suffering,

in silence.

Because,

I believe a lie



A knight,

rather,

always bearing

my lady's kerchief

as my pennant

struggling not for

love

itself but ...



the sweet lie

the ideal