An aging grip of a man,
Caters to a sauce that made its bid,
Appalling to a certain bodies,
Breathing what was yesterday's problem,
Nearing toward its uncomfortable sound,
The sound that I wouldn't be able to hear,
Just about fearing the last call before the first one even happened,
But I am yelling in my box-able mind to strangle the shortage in the signal department,
Crowding the database with its falsified alert,
Though it was a designed path to navigate the truth by holding one master lie.
YOU ARE READING
The Book of Lies
PoetryAn emotional investment toward gaining clarity from the chapters of lies, but it is knitted to explain the strict intake from an un-integrity blab that rolls off the devil's tongue.
