bruiserboy

-Betray-
My heart lies in the exanimate past, though,
you know,
nothing is so far from static,
as the perception of memory,
that is to say, not the minutes scribbled,
the anecdotal evidence
of every hour passed,
but the autobiographical fiction,
penned, culled, and corralled
through recollection,
misty eyes, and whiskey fibs,
sob stories and glory days
We all lie, there, at some point in time,
incapacitated,
twisting words to create an illusion,
fluidity within the flotsam,
a cannon upon which we base our lives,
a construct of reality,
as truthful as we desire,
from whence wisdom may, in fact, seep,
steeped in a nostalgic brine,
grandeur, garrulous fibs,
perhaps, we were lovers, perhaps, we lied