Camouflaged Iridescence  

Was it always there,

This immense terror of discovery,

Even being the essence of disguises

Among roses and birds,

Or children playing in the garden?

Is it haunted by leaves always projecting truth,

Albeit rustling darkly at times,

Then unexpectedly falling silent,

As if listening to wings of the dragonfly,

Who should be confident

Of its camouflaged iridescence?

For why else

Would its wings perform

The all-but-silent dervish blur in the sunlight

As it seeks out environs of lesser threat?

Such an innocent dichotomous stealth

Haunts many a guilty human life,

Where compulsive dishonesty

Creates fear of being discovered

For who and what they truly are.