Lies knot her lips in tangled braids,
tangle her soul in knotted lace;
bourbon eyes can’t see past passed shades:
her mirrors hold a monstrous face.
But can roses be monsters, dear?
Can their petals invoke fear,
frighten the coward now afraid?
Or by their rouge, do they inspire
courage in the craven heart?
And to your lies the truth aspires,
wishing it was so at its start,
hoping even the jester’s hire,
nearer to your guileful art.