Untrustworthy

To be untrustworthy
is to see all light as darkness,
all darkness as silence,
aliveness sleeping,
forever never.

To be untrustworthy
hurls one beneath the covers of death
where today's future can be but dreamed,
never realized as yesterday's seedlings for tomorrow,
that simple desire to be of petals,
not a tumbling weed among stunted blossoms.

To be untrustworthy
is to be banished adrift without compass or stars,
rendering breath but in a vacuum,
gentle touches as whispered memory,
fragrance becoming the ever-distant flower
desperate to bloom,
but imprisoned by wanton mirage.