Strong words for a finger, deaf as the moon and plumb broken only by the silence of a water prick shot through the casket of lies, they fly. Weak words for a mouth, coiled ‘round a cob of time aiming at success in tune to the stylus of bones and brick, housed in the mantle passed the sea of depths greater than the two mirrors. Strong thought for the eyeball, as the lie grows second to the “why” and a truth laughs, caught in-between birth and death.