Fict

I have been known, sometimes, to make things up
And never more than now. It's a defense
Against reality. I drink the cup
Of falsehood to the dregs, indulge in sense
And lick my lips with lies, lest I should think
About the truth, which freezes all my bones.
Enough of that! Towards that way lies the brink
Of that great precipice whose mighty stones
Rear up above the pits. To throw myself
Over the edge of that protective shelf
And shatter into pieces far below
Is something not to think about. I'll lie,
Prevaricate, and twinkle in the glow
Of make-believe, before I fall and die.