The tricks
of honey-beaters become
evident. You in old age
churn the truth of losses,
raising eyebrows.

No bottle brush was
left behind to act as secret
weapon, to bring down
the pygmalion. Like an earthen pot.
The leaked dam of tears
would stand erect.

The fallout gives a
shudder. You are stripped
off the boat, meant to cross
the muddy water.

A temple becomes
a monument, without deity.
There was only one survivor,
the godless curse.