They say the lens reveals the soul
A mirror framed, complete and whole.
But sometimes light conceals the ache,
And every smile’s a small heartbreak.
One photograph, so clean, composed,
Yet missed the war the heart imposed.
A second before the shutter clicked,
One soul stood still, heart worn and sick.
They didn’t want it, not the frame, not the act
But chose the peace, ignored the fact.
To please the hand behind the lens,
They posed, though truth refused to bend.
No joy, no will, just quiet despair
Still, they stood, just to be fair.
The camera clicked, the act was done,
A portrait forged beneath no sun.
The other soul, weary and worn,
Agreed in silence, tattered and torn.
Behind that frame, the air was still,
Heavy with truths that dared not spill.
The picture meant to be a keepsake
Was laced with more than hearts could take.
The devil’s hand moves smooth and sly,
While vipers wait with sharpened lie.
So out it went, that painted lie,
To prop up myths they lived nearby.
Did they believe the world forgot
The truths behind that single shot?
They fed their crowd a crafted tale,
With smiles as bait and virtue pale.
Yet those who knew could see the scar
The truth was never from afar.
How sick the mind that spins and weaves
Deceit from moments stolen, seized.
How low to live on false applause,
To build a life on fractured cause.
Pity the soul who can’t survive
Unless they disturb another’s peace to thrive
Whose only truth is staged and sold
A thief of peace in masks of gold.
— The Unheard