Were reality what it often should
Then artistry would have lost her lure -
For forgery a perfect art had been
Fully conceived in imaginations womb
And by a creative muse is born.
Like poesy that shadowy cast her words
Her mystery tale she fully unlocks
Often strange
Oftener odd
Yet so familiar
It benumbs the critics searching urge.
Her delicate refinements amiably tooled
Are extracted from the darkest canyons of plots
In details to confuse and the senses benumb
As forgery so perfect so grand.
Lovely and priceless there she lies
Where the original she surpasses in originality
So crafted with caution and calmness
That like the masterpiece there she lies!
O how in praise of forgery I often rant.

Ike Morah
Baltimore, MD