I Swear

A stranger stands before me

with objective eyes prescribed

only to officers of the law.

 

He bows his head to a thick book

clutched in his hands, his protection of the

literature overwhelming.

 

The judge speaks:

Place your right hand on the Bible

and raise your left.

 

I imagine a silver, mystical hand

attempting to clasp my own,

entombing me in proof.

 

I fail to succumb to

His preaching.

I don’t believe in God.

 

Wretched judgement

swallows me in a blister of

infallible appraisal –

 

like trees that invent ground

from which they grow.

Damnation is a lie.

 

Do you swear to tell the truth, the whole truth

and nothing but the truth,

so help you God?

 

I swear away my life,

a façade to an athlete of the truth.

I open my eyes and state my deceit:

 

I do.

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