Leaking Camouflage

They dangle from threads of our tales
over the places we dwell.
The ones that we paint ashen and cold
to hide the storms inside,
which finally drip tears over the day.

Then there are the images
carefully carved to cloak with a smile
what is remembered
from each graveyard trip at midnight
only despite the sounds of laughter,
each echo in chortle’s refrain
sooner or later the paint makeup off
and exposes the black textures within
where sobs shudder the farce
of a being satirists
who never gets hurt and always sees the sun.

Every contrived collection
in the crafted illusions
of our massaged truths
always decay in time
when the heart finally flows
with honesty of its essence
through any facades we make
for the benefit of others.