The noose-shaped lie constricts my
throat, slithering the nape of my
neck. Their ways, they are not
like my own, for my words are not
venomous. Truth has many faces
(even that of deceit). They know
nothing of my thoughts, for I too
keep secrets. A forked tongue is
easily hidden behind a grin. Their
intentions aren't hard to read.
Nightfall brings with it the scent
of the morgue, calling forth the
slithering liar. My lies shall rot
with me, for I'm an honest man.
Whether worm or serpent, they
slither, and I have bedded down
beside them, contradicting my
word. Your throat is choked with
dust, but still your tongue is
forked. You ramble on with cursed
words until I cut it out. My lies
shall rot with me, for I'm an
honest man.