Rough Stream of Thought

***Disclaimer: This is not so much a poem, as an exercise in stream of consciousness. I just sort of wrote what I thought about. Sorry if it makes little or no sense to anyone else. ;p There is an intense power misunderstood. A little white lie, a whopper of a tale, in equal measure alter, in the mind of listening ears, reality. In fact, the white lies, those minor, subtle changes conceal more believably the truth. But so what? Nobody gets hurt. Maybe one fudged things a little, to get the deal, to get the date, to get what was wanted and who cares? Alternate realities existing in varied minds matter little in the long view, or the grand scheme, and yet…I wonder: What is betrayal? How far can we bend truth how distorted can we make reality how flexible is another’s trust how forgiving? The line seems to be getting blurry or maybe it always has been for lack of clarity due to lack of information. Convincing another of a lie is compelled ignorance of reality; is playing God. Which raises the curious point of whether God so toys with men’s perceptions. But let’s not digress down that road, we’ll save it for a sunset chit-chat. Bear no false witness. Swear on the truth. Integrity. What meaning have such morals when at a word, men create illusions and other men gather in a pretended utopia, or dystopia, united. Sharing drinks and tall-tales lying to rest arguments nobody is making. Dispelling false realities with their own false realities But why not? What is creativity if not false expressions of what is. Is abstraction not equally vile? Perhaps then, there can be no art without deception. What if deception is, at the core, an art form. Confident strokes of illusion disassemble reality one harmless lie layered on another in a hypothetical Guernica. …and such are the times.