A lie we take to the grave
is one of which we never speak.
When truth’s concealed in silence,
the blighted outlook’s bleak.
But even grass grows on blighted land,
is it worth it not to tell a soul?
Death is dreary, weary, watery, silent,
darkness encompassing, everlasting, foul, full.
What does it mean when they say,
“The truth will set you free.”?
I don’t know, but I’ll venture a guess,
that it will heal you and me.
Lies are fascinating in how we make them,
because the biggest are those we tell ourselves.
Incredibly taxing, terrible, troublesome, toilsome.
And when we don’t believe, we wearily delve.
Your lies hurt us both equally.
And mine do the same.
I’m so sorry, you are too.
yet neither you, nor I, are to blame.