In the hollow where truth should nest,
Lies weave their restless webs—
Spun silk that catches light,
Reflects the sun in deceitful sparkles.

I despise the shimmer,
The gloss that coats the rough, unvarnished reality,
Where words should weigh with the gravity of honesty
But float, instead, light and empty.

Had we but planted seeds of sincerity,
Would our garden have bloomed brighter?
Truth—the water, the sun, the fertile soil—
Ignored for the invasive spread of sweet falsehoods.

Each lie, a betrayal,
A ghost that haunts the quiet corridors of trust,
Echoing in the spaces where laughter once lived,
Leaving chill shadows in its wake.

I wish—oh, how I wish—
For a past painted in true hues,
Not this mosaic of broken promises,
Sharp-edged, cutting deep each time I dare to touch.

Yet, here I stand, amid the wreckage of could-have-beens,
Dreaming of a landscape where truth stands proud,
Where lies are but withered vines,
Removed, and remembered no more.

I really liked them, it’s too bad—
Their charm, a mirage on this barren field,
Compelling even as it misled,
A regrettable beauty in the art of deception.

And yet, I don’t need the drama,
For my life already dances with too much storm and strife,
Adding falsehoods to the fray
Is a game I can no longer afford to play.