Truth is...

The tree blues and sky greens

of rusted paper and iron tore,

our sense of truth lies

there and then and now no more.

And my pedantic peers

cloaked in masks of

sorrow smiles and happy tears,

evoke deceit and fears

the false fables of his friend,

his father, and mother,

his soulmate, and his lover.

And our town's visage so badly bruised by

vice of half-truth and lie-

blind and deaf to the

helpless little girl

and my pencils' silent cry

and how the little boy's moulded by

the book he learns,

and how sore it is when the

broken promise burns.

But for all this

my heart bled its end-

the children are grown and

now too dons their parents’ fright.

Will I ever find my truth in woven words?

Or perhaps better sought upon the velvet

of the darkening night...

Oh, so seldom we are who we are

because of what

might be said or

could be seen,

that nothing's what it should be

and no-one's who they could've been.

-MM