This is just the epic I recite—
another lie dressed up in light,
one smooth line at a time,
dripping honey, sweet with rhyme.
In the hope it might conceal
every raw wound I still feel,
tucked beneath each crafted line,
woven threads in a grand design.
More than merely invention,
but less than benediction,
I chant these sacred, hollow words—
ignored by slow, prosaic herds.
For no matter the true reason,
I scorn each sentimental season—
with its feeble urge to inspire
my burnt-out, ancestral pyre.
Since all that’s truly ever seen
is the glow of a faint blue screen—
a whole world within their hand,
even though they do not understand.