"In increments both measurable and not, our childhood is stolen from us. Not always in one momentous event, but often in a series of small robberies, which add up to the same loss. "
The truth
The backside of the lie
The shadow of being right
Left is right
Upstairs is below
That turns my soul
Inside out
And nothing is what it seems
Tears roll
Where my heart is supposed to be
Slow and treacly
If the lukewarm blood
Of the last sacrifice
On the altar of truth
A mirror it is
And the reflection suffers
Of the lie being right
And the shadow
It lives in my soul.
Copyright © Arlette Ferber. All rights reserved.
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