Where tears met the fog,
Your armour grew –
Negligee wrapping
Pain in more palatable form,
Deflecting eyes from
Bones brittle as death.
If you allow the Light
To strip you naked
(Sinews and seams
Bruised and bare)
Your genuine
Can grow.
You think
that these layers of cold pseudonyms,
6-ply stratification,
red-herring Venetian mask
will conceal inadequacy
and cloak sparse spirit,
but I see you;
your true colours
spill through the cracks
of your costume.
Fig-leaf false fronts
are destined to fall;
lay smoke screen aside
so I can
touch the true self,
and be blessed by your
candid camera.
*
For more on this topic, visit Growing with God in my Garden