Dreaden vail

He who is me
lies braided with truth
truth braided with lies.
Pure lies. Pure truths.
Some slip out by accident,
others I spit out with intent.

Fear of rejection, fear of consequence,
forges young men into the unbecoming
swindlers and jesters,
apprentices who outgrow honesty
and master deception instead.

Lies upon lies stack like scaffolding,
and nothing feels real
yet it is.
It stands. It breathes.

Lying is a craft,
practiced by the fated alone.