The Fermented Truth

At first sip, you might recoil in disgust—
a grimace tightening your jaw,
your throat convulsing at the acrid sting.

You spit it out like stagnant water left to rot beneath the sun,
a taste so foul it seems impossible to endure.

But untruths do not thrive on single encounters.
They demand repetition—
lap after lap against the tongue,
dulling resistance,
refining appetite.

Soon, the bitterness softens into something strangely familiar,
and the once-toxic spirit slides down with ease,
like lemonade on a fevered afternoon.

Dressed in sugar syrups,
masked by fizzing sweetness,
the draught transforms into a nectar you crave.
You do not sip anymore—
you gulp.

The body adapts, the mind follows,
addicted to the daily dose,
nourished not by substance,
but by the ritual of intoxication.

Years pass, and truth itself grows foreign—
its clarity too sharp,
its purity too abrasive for a tongue
conditioned to sour wine and muddied waters.

The lie ferments,
ripening into something richer,
more complex,
more desirable than the simple fruit from which it once sprang.

And so you kneel at the cask,
drawn to the brewers of deceit,
clutching their chalice with trembling hands.

Rejecting all else,
you drink deeply,
for the taste of false freedom
has become your only vintage.