Lies slip off your forked tongue like butter,
which of course wouldn’t melt in that mouth.
Simpering sweetly, you charm and hoax
and hide a heart with rotten flesh,
a fruit whose decay runs to the core
but whose skin pretends otherwise.
Ever the deflector, you shove your shame
onto passers-by with innocent gaze.
Now that I have found you out,
you snake in the grass,
you wretched, blind, diseased Edenic apple,
mine will be a Sword of Truth,
cutting through the atrophied layers to expose the blight.
If you choose,
my blow could bring your gangrene fresh air;
the inner putrescence, if allowed to contact Reality,
can become nutritious and satisfying
(after the pain of exposure fades).
But I fear that you will cover your rot with
another cloak of magical skin
and hide your maggots from Truth’s reach.