Why lie; the visions are painted
all over the apartment walls.
Air-cusped roofs, silent as ever.

God blown by Manila wind tastes
bland in our tongue again as He
wakes our worn out eyes.     Wincing from the

white lies we take with whiskey.
Then the sun enslaves the city,
then we surrender like leaves

over and over.

Why lie if it is our own invention
that we oppose: the same doors
painted dead white, the same drapes,

the same closet locks, all we know
inside a room with a whirring fan,
and us who drink from jugs.

Everything, on loop; every breath, a battle.
Selves splay in the first gate of hell
like a smoking car on the curb,

over and over.


Author Bio:

Lorhenz Lacsa is a poet and a writer from the Philippines. He considers poetry as an extension of himself, like an omelet you carry for good luck. In his case, it brings constant internal rumblings. He is a cat person.