Burnt sands cover the liescape stretching between truth and deceit buried deep in a person’s mind. A desert of deceit. Unhindered by any convention, yet still possessing a conscience that sometimes asks questions about morality and sensuality.
Falsehoods, like scorpions and snakes, strike swiftly in the seething sands of a liar’s mind whose mission is to deceive. The liar’s soul, burnt by dwelling in the bronzed wasteland of duplicity, is shriveled and crispy.
There are those who dwell in this sandy hell by choice. Content to wander dunes of deceit. Content to live a lie. Content to vilify. Souls that were born bone dry. For these nomads in society, I have no pity.
The Creative Chronicles of Dave Stancliff 