Can you tell me
What remains real
When our words
Are never that honest –

This sleight of hand
Merely spoken
Rather than seen
Off the cuff?

How expression
Tricks every ear
If shared in terms
Always gorgeous,

Proving magic
Fails such adornment
Appearing flawed
While up close –

Perceiving rags
As their phrase
So another boast
May deny them

Since illusions
Uttered by poets
Make little
But puffs of smoke

Between fools
Exhaling their breath
Yet exhausting truths
Deeply hidden,

Still agreeing
Pretty concealments
Just feel more right
Faking soul

During periods
Forcing attempts
Where an empty page
Tells it plainly

From our burnout
Being that serious
Far too much
Over time.

No mirror
Can purely deceive
Like some petty trick
Pulling rabbits.

Only misery
Offered on stages
Fills theaters again
Though a fraud.

• J. Pigno