Fact Wanting Fiction


The first semblance of face
starts with amoretto cheeks
beneath storybook eyes,
silken strands draped across the brow,
curious noses,
innocent lips.

Upon canvases once so pure
strokes the brush of time
dipping into the palette of choices,
layering image upon image,
change upon change,
life’s collage of colors,
some muddy,
few untainted.

Time’s experience dries,
cracks, flakes,
and fades this dramatis personae
awaiting retirement in legacy’s attic,
framed veneers leaned against
collective walls sheltering memories,
where faces once worshiped not mirrors,
where expressions were for their own sake,
and manufactured masks
donned only for…
fiction.

What happened?

Why does fact seem to long for fiction,

obviating truth for the tenuous "feel good?"