some allowance

I could very easily be 
not what you think of me. 

I have a fantastic imagination
for strategems, lies, all kinds of fun.
Long cons and frauds. Why, everyone
I tell them to agrees - that one, they'd
have fallen for, cold. Eventually,

It dawns on me: hey. How do we know
I'm not deep in the grip of self-deceit,
with its iron and oh so invisible hold?
Perhaps this shining field of wheat 
is but so much chaff, so much fool's gold? 
What if the one who you love so pure 
is at best an alloy, a mixed metaphor?

Or only a simulacrum coined
and conjured from all the best parts
I could think of me? How would we suss
and spot flaw from join? How do we know
you're impartial enough, detached enough
to be not taken in, your trust purloined? 

An act like that could be easy to do.
How can we really feel safe within 
such warp and weft, so cunningly
-wrought from morning dew and fresh
mown grass? Even I don't know who 
I'm kidding or how, I've become in this 
moment such a prize ass. Oh god baby 
please please say it's not so! It's almost 
too much for me
to allow

but I suppose in a case like this,
pending some hard clue, we'll just
have to let it go. A free pass 

for me. An enduring task
of scrutiny's toil
for you.