Thirty Days Of Julia: Day Eleven

Of her time in Warley, I could not tell,
for I promised to keep her confidence.
My duty to the truth, as a writer,
was not compromised, because I revealed
more with one well-honed lie than with pointless
pages of concrete detail. My failure
was to treat her with the reverent care
of a faun at bay within the forest
glade where we first met. Afraid to break her
with my modest touch, I lost her to men
more crude in their approach. If she was cured,
it was by learning to mimic 'normal'
behaviour as part of her psychosis.
Not poetic, but not all life was art.