Hiss

Little leaks of that simmering
inner tea pot
where the tea of fabrications brews.
It hisses so steadily from the lips
with trails of deceptive steam
out of the bubbling inside
so perceptively hot.

Yet it only is an illusion
that rises in other’s minds
as images of the self
one desires to shape.

Only it is just air,
the blown forms of tales
meant to infect with trust.

Oh how captivating and fascinating
those wispy phantom personas
can be unto a vulnerable heart.

In the end,
to our pain of discovery,
what the tongue twisted
by the smoke signals of promise
always vanishes
once you try to make them
into other than a ghost.