Honest Lies

 Sitting on a table a bottle of scotch gave an elaborate lecture twisting and turning the mind, almost as if the world was his again.


Sitting behind misfortune there is a chain tied to our ability to cradle the blindest truths and  the plainest lies. Intoxication, a scissors to the fabric that holds together our sanity and our personality.


Maybe it was within, maybe a play of internal mind games. The flow of parables, an uncertainty coming from the throbbing manifestation of the living scotch, matching the above statement as a bewilderment. 


So he remained focused, in awe of this enlightenment. The turns turning to swirls. Is it possible our true nature is forced out by intoxication?

Then what kind of lies are they called when we make the outcome our truth? A false face worn one to many times the real one becomes forgotten. 

What then do we do, except remain in a false parody. 


Pour down another glass friend, it said in a caressing warm voice, I shall tell you more. 

Stop! He held his glass up while his head remained on the table, face down. A protest out of total submission.


But the bottle said nothing more, except stare at him lifeless.

In recognition to its fatal flaw, to pour never to take back. It poured him another. A continuum to the flow of its blood, its scotch the flaw of its very blood.

He convinced himself on another truth, or a lie, a life down on another.


M¿ster¿°°°

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