We trot down Escher's stairs,
flaunting idiosyncrasies
of flair and style,
writing whims
as we imagine God
would wring his hands
before creation.
Mirroring narration,
every distorted face
grimaces answers
in backwards feedback;
the dance of negation,
because playing contrarian
presents a response
we yearn to hear.
Honesty does not come cheap.
Diogenes and his useless lantern
could never cast shadows in daylight;
but doubt is a sturdy anvil
to hammer sparks from paranoia.
So we gather around the fire,
trade stories for tricks
picked up from other bards;
toast articles of wit
(abominations)
combinations not our own.
A lie is still a lie anonymously,
we can bicker about degrees;
truth dashes across our periphery
and we will write about that too.



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