THE MIDDLE CHILD
The depth of your deception has yet to be revealed
your heart sealed
your field of operations
a silent bloody blend
of sophisticated curtsies, smiling innuendoes
and sly knifings in the back.
Your mother said you were a liar
but, even she could not know how far you would aspire
how many desiring hearts you would cut
how many fires would burn in your wake
how manipulation could shake things up
you bending so low in seeming supplication
only to turn the tables, upending
even the most guileless victim.
Your so called immaturity
but putting a blind eye to your better side
all the better to slide into dark treachery
a game learned at mother's knee
free from responsibility, now grown wild.
Ah, yes. The middle child.
© Farrell Dyde