The Elephant In The Room If the nudity of his truth were not solid and smelly, its audacity was unclothed, he told her something silly about his whereabouts and a jive of jinxed bouts that could possibly coerce an elephant to chirp & deny, “Don’t rope me in this mess, sir, I`ve my troubles. My trunk has been stolen as if the trunk thief thought that it was too heavy for me, it`s not a relief. It cannot be too heavy for me. Your truth is. I’m not your witness. Your truth or lack of it seems to the elephant.” By the same token, perhaps his justifications, his accounts could arm-twist a virtuous dove into committing crimes of murder, bed & bird-hopping & trumpeting too. In all fairness, his various versions were as frozen as a lifeless stone, as mouthwatering as a pink puke after an extravaganza of titanic beer downing and decimating which he claimed was nothing else but the truth of all truths. His lady was not swept away by his accounts and promises of love, she told him to spare her from it all, she was not fast asleep, she jogged his memory before calling it a truth that had lost its virginity and sanity under a brazen blanket of fairytales. Life`s Oscillations & Obsessions |