Grift

A grin behind a polished smile,
the grifter walks the bustling street,
whilst trust, a fragile thing, beguiled,
slips through his fingers like deceit.

He sells a dream in gilded paper,
a promise bright as polished brass,
yet every word is vapour‑thin,
a slick veneer that will not last.

The mark, half‑hoping, half‑bewildered,
hands over cheque or earnest pound,
while shadows dance where truth once dwelled—
the grift departs, no trace be found.

When dusk descends and lamps grow dim,
the city sighs, its colour grey,
the grifter vanishes on a whim,
leaving only doubt to sway.

So tread with care where offers gleam,
for not all that glints is gold;
a grin may hide a cruel scheme—
the grift, a story never told.