As I lay in a bed of my own making I feel the pain cling to my nerves.
I read anguish written on my sweat covered brow.
People speak, without ever talking, they speak of me.
And their words, not less true in the vein of love or hate, paint the picture.
The picture that stands before me framed in a mirror.
Left to my mind and my less truthful senses I decide they are true in their painting, in their art.
I am what they say I am, but unable to truly see I am lied to by that painting.
I look out in longing for my love to describe my painted reflecting face.
With her love comes gilded descriptions, wrought with promise and truth.
But which am I
Am I the tortured and tainted soul that leads the masses looking for guidance?
Or am I a man with deceptive senses?