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R. T. Castleberry

Something About the Truth

I confess to breakfast banalities,

a cinderblock sense of honor,

a stab to the throat at the smallest complaint.

I take the burden as the job

forging the famous letters collection;

a gas leak and the locked red door;

how to turn a mistress to stranger once again.

A sleep cycle stretch of prophesy

tumbles conclusive heresies,

the maudlin with the mocking.

Irritants aside, cell phone sentiments apply:

I’ve never lied that you know about.






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