Dance, little liar

I’m a holy scriptwriter. I stand behind the curtain. I will know the words when the world stands to attention, when my speech bends to my will, when I know the precise position I’m to fill. I’m the one who’ll know: holy, hidden and all for show. I stand over the choir and redeem the difference. I try though sometimes I can only feign forgiveness: holy, for hire and not for sale. I am easily undone but by then, I’m gone. I’m a lender of lighters, a hangover survivor. I’m a terrible liar. In the shadow of thin-walled, whitewashed stone fabric, in the city of pre-worn, torn, pre-bought denim. I am the hand that grasps and longs and the one left suspended when all is withdrawn. I’m the crack in the altar, a stone statue waxed over. I’m a kid at the opera. I’m a terrible liar.