The Art of Telling Lies

Begin with the slightest wisp
like a twine of smoke
rising from a dry twig
as it catches flame.
Thread it softly lest it break
through the needle of your telling.

Sew a discreet line
plying the cloth
with modest stitches.
Adorn it simply;
don't embellish
with the padded satin stitch,
twisted borders or bullion knots,
nor gather the edge into ruffles
for under pressure
thread is prone to snap
unraveling your work.

Seam with a trace
so nearly truth
that when you leave
the lingering scent
will be a hint of leaves
burning late October
or the pleasant smell
of pine as tinder bursts
beneath it into flame.
Only a tinge, mind you.
They'll sniff you out
if choking on smoke
you stagger in
pockmarked from cinders,
a stench of burning brush
and scorched fur
reeling in your hair.

PT

Not exactly a good topic for Sunday. Believe me, I did learn something at church today. :) I woke up with this poem forming in my subconscious a couple of days ago. I held the first line in my head all night long, and when I got up in the morning, the title came. The rest just unfolded down the page. Writing is an amazing process. Who knows where stuff comes from?