All he said was nothing, he spoke but did not say a word, alas, we all though he was merely mute.

Lost conversation, too one sided, carried away by wind that wasn't there. But he could hear the no-breeze whisper. Softly, riding silent voices.

And others watched so somberly, his snake like teeth and tongue, move to the will of sentences he cold not convey. But they were sure that if they heard him speak clearly like a polished diamond, all he'd spout be lies, abstaining truth for darkness in a world that was all light. An involuntary trade it be. So In absence of an article to compensate we made sure he said nothing. Which wasn't hard because he lacked the courage to speak.

Not knowing why, but it seemed, long ago, that he could set his mouth ajar and recite all the world's knowledge, claiming to be wise.

He was a liar.

"We should stop thinking that way." Whispers Denial to the one who cut the cover off their ears, and thought.

To the woman, to the catalyst, as I'm sure he would describe her, we all turned our heads and denied she was unfaithful as he claimed, because we knew she wasn't, there was no reason.

And who cut his throat that night so many years ago? I suppose he cannot tell us. After all he hadn't said a thing.

Throat cut by a blade all but him could see. And he wept, over non-existent blood stained sheets. Ran red with the sorrows of too many non-existent people, from non-existent times, and non-existent places, non-existent faces cried with him too. Those he could see.

He was fake. He will forever be. As reality is lost in time to him, and suicide is not too prime for him. After all there are too many other ways he can escape, his dreary, dark, and untimely fate.

To the two children of the woman, to the one who heard the man but didn't care enough to say I love you, and mean it. We're all sinners aren't we?

A shadow on a canvass of pure virgin white. Three. Brazen. Spots. Because we were the only ones who heard the beguile words of the man who hand crafted them, who spoke of burning the big white signs to turn the children unfaithful, just like he though the woman to be. To the man who was deceptively kind, to the man that secretly cried at night over the fire in the grill, to the man that lacked maturity and acted as though he could decide who possessed it. To that man I say we heard you, but perhaps we didn't listen.