Like an old dog with scars

the truth stands bare
in a room full of whispers,
each eye a question mark,
each laugh an echo of doubt,
and yet,
it sips its coffee,
stares down the barrel of disbelief,
not wavering,
not bending,
like an old dog with scars
who’s seen the world
in all its bleeding colors,
who knows that skepticism
is just a shadow,
always trailing,
always hungry,
but never the pulse of the moment.

truth doesn’t flinch at the punch,
doesn’t cower from the limelight,
it knows the night's grasp
tightens around the throat of deception,
it knows the hands that clasp in prayer
won't save the liar from the floor,
where the real stories lie.

let them laugh,
let them shake their heads,
while truth rolls a joint
and lights it slow,
exhaling into the chaos,
savoring every drag,
settling in for the long night,
knowing that beneath the noise,
certainty waits,
unfazed,
a scuffed combat boot
on shattered glass.