severing the cord.
the sword of damn Damocles
pleases me not to invoke.
but choke on the wine of lies
and you will find air
a fair and unforgotten fragrance.
random chance
betrays the dance to the dancers.
shouting out lies does not make them
truth.

can you drip a drop of poison
at these coordinates in the well
of your heart
and not infect the entire lake
and make it all unfit to drink?
think of all the untold rectitude
as silent, semantic lies
and realize
there are some evils best left
alone.


copyright William F. DeVault (wfdv)