We cry, with the throb of deception,
Because we’ve seen the tongue of deceit, without exception.
We cry, and we feel guilt,
Because we’ve spat the words of trickery ourselves, knowing what it would wilt.
And so, we speak in feathers of white, to cover our scarring words,
Even when we know white lies can so easily be tainted by the song of black birds.

But why can’t we speak in different shades of light?
Periwinkle lies, so soft and pure it would chirp with joy even through the darkest of nights,
Or navy lies, that, with its deep hue, would calm our harrowing thoughts.
And why not lie in shapes and spots?
Diamond lies, with their captivating clarity and sharp precision,
Sphere lies, the ones that may seem shallow, but offer solace in their gentle vision.

And as black crows circle overhead and white doves flurry past,
Falling feathers turn to ashes as faces turn aghast.
Smoke is in the air – words choke us, trapping us under the shadows of its wing.
It poisons us, so slow we would never know until we are a step away from the fringe.
Eyes watering, throat closing, heart pounding, we blink away the tears,
So then we would see the words coiled around our tongues, staining the white over the years.

But as my tongue rots away and my words become one with the cries of the crow,
I dream of a wish, once made by a child hidden behind the curtains of my show.
As a child, I had been surrounded by the black, which ate into me with a finish.
And now, with my stained heart in my hands, I wish;
A lie, whether white, or navy, or round, I would’ve taken to keep my heart from demise,
To get away from the harsh truth; the truth stings worse than the lies.

– Suevean (Evelyn) Chin