The name and pretense of virtue is as serviceable to self-interest as are real vices.
Francois de La Rochefoucauld
The forbidden, no one speaks of it.
Not you, him or them
and neither will I.
We perfected the art of pretense.
If not spoken, then there isn’t life to it
Hence, did it really happen?
Peace of mind so foreign,
can barely remember when you had the luxury of its presence.
Your soul on the cross,
seasons after seasons,
living for your mistakes.
Hey! the celeste are calling, if fettered with a troubled soul
come forth and be gifted tranquility.
I present you this, time after time.
Walk away from your pride, I say.
Love your flaws.
Yet you cling on to the misery you call life.
I have to say, you are drying up
from the inside out, and its almost beautiful to watch
If it wasn’t familiar, dead eye.
As we dwell at the teat of the forbidden you forbade.
Written for Moonwashed Weekly Prompt – Forbidden – October 11, 2022