Betrayal

This poem is not mine, it is by Frank P. Whyte, in his words...................

By far my most popular poem, Betrayal has developed almost a cult following, having been put to music by several, and held closely by many who have themselves been betrayed. 

I am flattered by the attention and the readership. Sometimes the words just fall, almost as if from the wailing of the betrayed in some other tortuous dimension. 

But this is a poem of healing as well, for when you can see it and call it what it is, you can breathe again, and fight, and defy those who would betray you. Once that is accomplished, the victimization is at an end.

Betrayal comes in many forms,
But relies on underlying intimacy
To insure a lethal wound.
It is an emotional ambush,
Carefully designed,
Flawlessly executed,
Producing an evil sound
In the orchestra of life.

"Let's talk about it," she said,
"So I might explain why you are wrong.
You are paranoid, suspicious
And you lack the proper trust.
If only you had more faith in me,
You would understand your flaws."

Then, filled with doubt,
And tangents notwithstanding,
I struggle with myself.
Am I flawed?
Do I lack the proper trust?
Am I paranoid and suspicious?
Perhaps it is me.

The Betrayer
Will wrap themselves in a coat of righteousness,
Impervious to honest eyes
That are searching for a soul.
Instead...
They will describe their soul for you,
And demand that you will see
The spiritual mirage.

And so I am stranded
In the valley of disregard.
Alone.
And I am left to decide
Who brought me to this barren wasteland.

Why does conscience desert me
And tell me that I am wrong,
When evil lies before me and not within?
And then I know...
That betrayal is not a lonely thing,
It has an evil twin.

Betrayal is a conspiracy
With those who would wield the saber;
Darkened assignations,
Construed in private
By blighted souls.

Consider if you will,
Old Palestine,
Where the blood of innocents was spilled
By a thousand stones,
And jeers,
And a hatred born of lies.

Consider life in Salem,
And screams heard above the flames,
Hatred in the eyes of the accusers
Tragic death without a crime.

And so we arrive at a point in our lives
When I know that I've been betrayed.
I hear hushed conversations from afar;
Justifications and rationalizations
From those who have sprung the trap.
Perhaps I am wrong,
And this is all some tragic mistake,
But I reside in the valley of disregard,
And I feel the stones as I am tied to the stake.

-Frank P. Whyte