Deception's fertile soil

Deception thrives where lies are cloaked in light. 

Frail garment torn, the stench that lies within 

Are words perfumed by fetid thought and blight— 

Poisonous lyrics are your next of kin. 

Your face belies your anger, Domino, 

A through–composed façade, far from benign. 

The curtain tears, revealing death’s tableau— 

The High Priest laughs, belitt’ling God’s design. 

By chance observed, no more may you deny 

Unfeigned duplicity—your bread, your wine. 

Slick sweet syllables—whose apple, whose eye? 

Your moral compass never was divine. 

The dove descended, undefended, slain, 

Her song now silenced, Abel drowned in Cain. 

This was my first sonnet. The anger and grief was raw.

I often resort to images taken from the Bible, mostly because I grew up in, what one might call, a devout (but not overly zealous) home. I come from a long line of Anabaptists, but not the wooden horse or black hat variety. More like cell phones, electricity and zippers.