He’s a liar.
Falsity drips out of his mouth
Slowly, its thick juice
Running down his chin.
A sickly sweet aftertaste remains
So he continues to lap up every last drop.
The sweetness once again melts away
All his troubling thoughts
Like a damned drug.
“Forbidden fruit is wrong to bite” I say
He says “how can it be”
When the fruity taste of falsity
Will always set him free?