Dead wrong

I have finally filed every single piece of paper in this dwelling and created a system that will hopefully prevent the kind of build up that was threatening to crush me under the weight of random printouts and lost necessities. And during this long and arduous task I came across this old poem.

I won't flatter myself that either its unearthing from the deep strata of my own recorded history, nor its fragmentary nature, make it worthy of sitting so close to Sappho, but I do like it's bitter black humour.

Dead wrong

You lie
like a dead sheep
upstream in the river
of my life.

You lied.
A lie by ommission
is still a lie
and just as rotton
as a fetid corpse
in swift, clear water.