someone spoke the truth
to me last night. just a few
words disguised in dulcet tones,
i recognized it, all the same
knowing i should make myself
get up, write it down.
but it was late and i was exhausted
from working all day at a desk full
of falsified numbers, only barely
cloaking, rich in dishonesty.
and now when i have been roused,
urgently from my bed, sight sharpened
sunlight, i can remember only
the flavor–not quite sweet
nor sharp, but incomprehensibly bland
and milled finely, yet decadent as only
dust could be. and now not even
ambrosia sweetens my tongue
nor does my palette balk at bile,
for i taste nothing but ash and
sleep naught but dreams of lies


5 thoughts on “

  1. definitely very true, and I love the poem! the part about the flavor is my favorite, as it applies to memories and reflections in general; many of them only retain a hint a flavor but that seems to be enough sometimes.. :goodjob:


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