truth is trickier than a cage of monkeys,

or so they say, and it's true, truth's 

sly sophistication shows our clever cousins

a clean pair of heels, it's just so elusive, 

so slippy, slippier than slippers on ice, 

or Nessie, given its facility to hide, dip, 

or nip in and out of the curtain of existence 

like a character in a Pullman novel, 

and tougher to fathom than the Enigma code, 

 

which is strange because truth must be, 

in truth, all around us, it must be somewhere, 

which makes me wonder, who trained mouths 

to tell lies, in every shape and size, and

tell tall stories, more storeyed than the 

Burj Khalifa, thick and thinly veiled ones, 

whiter-than-white ones, some with little 

or no disguise, others masquerading as excuses 

and because-because becozums, these 

 

deceptions have become the life blood surging 

through veins of family and social interactions, 

and tougher to stamp out than the tardigrade,

for lies thrive, now so embedded in our heads,

we feel completely comfortable when telling them,

and to our po-faces, lies can seem like truths, 

which makes the truth yet more elusive,

even harder to know, so, when deciding between

the prosecution and the defence, how are we ever

supposed to know which side of the fence is truth?

 

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