A surplus of lies.
Wherein do lies blossom?
In the hearts of man?
Or the mouth of a woman scorned?
Wherein do lies rest
And harken, no longer?
Like the sunlight that shines
upon a castle.
It will never reach the darkness
of the larder.
Or the heart of a sorrowful martyr.
Lest we heed the words of our brothers.
Reach for the sun a little harder.
And forget the taste of past lovers.
Wherein does misery make its bed?
Abruptly inside the heart? Her absence
should not bother.
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