The Metamorphosis of a Hypocrite
By day he wears the light,
by night he cloaks in shade,
with honeyed words upon his lips,
but poison in his veins is laid.
He praises you with gentle tone,
then cuts you when unseen,
he weeps for truth at morning’s dawn,
yet tramples stars serene.
A serpent dressed in angel’s skin,
he shifts beneath the sun,
he smiles and wraps you in embrace —
but all his warmth is none.
His words are mist — deceiving veil,
that hides the hollow face,
and when the mask at last falls off,
there’s nothing — just empty space.
For hypocrisy’s no art at all,
but self-condemned disguise,
where night can’t hide the dark within,
and light unmasks the lies.
