To the liar

Sometimes I think of all the lies you told
The way you kept us entertained
The tales you spun and the things you said
How you lived across the world
How your daughter was growing up so fast
How your infant son died in the cold of winter
You were married and you left your wife
Out of sorrow, out of memory
And then you came back to England
So engaged and full of a thousand words
You had the scars to prove your pain
You had the tears to let belief flow
But then we found out that Iceland never was
That the only truth was the death of your mother
The only fact was your sister
The only salvation was the fact we still trusted you
We still believe in your future
In your paintings, your forgery, your pain
Whatever the truth is you are still the same
Same man walking in those shoes
Who has shown some kindness, some spirit
Who wrote such pure-sounding word
For an artist is an artist whether or not
He created the brush strokes that gave his name
Your name, that may itself seem now a lie
But let me tell you this one day
That you are still in my mind, in these poems I write
You'll never be out of my mind
No matter what lies you told.