Maybe it is true that we learn to love our white lies,
that we just like the way they sound,
and we get so that we cannot do very much,
very much at all,
when we lose our recollection of the minutia of those lies
Maybe it is,
maybe it is a lot of things,
if we gather all our dominoes and start counting backwards,
we could remind ourselves of life before lying,
but I reckon if we had that wherewithal,
we certainly would not be here,
where things are murky to say the least,
But why does lying feel so honest in here,
in our synapses,
maybe we get used to our own malignancy,
so much so that we do not notice the death of everything before it,
it was a simple syrup of sorts,
a fleeting elixir for the mind,
a way to remedy our flaws,
our regrets,
our once and former ways of life,
Maybe they were never white lies,
just lies,
all the same,
it is the euphemisms,
in the end,
that do us in,
that get us so the mirror does not look back with the same frame of mind it used to
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