Thursday, January 19, 2023

Lies

If I said the moon is blue

And that no lie is ever true,


Should I believe myself or you,

You who once knew the truth?


A ticket bought at a liar’s booth

Is worth a hundred billion dollars,


The blind, deaf, dumb man hollers,

As the crowd stampedes to buy its


Own, so quickly torn to little bits

And ticker-taped into the streets,


Soon grown to enormous sheets

Of gray that once was black and white.


It is a petty insane sight.

There is the found and what one seeks —


Both become an idee fixe,

One thing and one alone


That morphs, like the game telephone,

The moon into a blaring tone.