Overload
I think nothing of the insecure
mistruths that inhabit your sight.
Fermenting like aged peaches and rye placed
upon an invisible shelf.
To question oneself is to admit that nothing
can be known, is truth
in itself.
Long forgotten pasts hibernate in the mind
obscuring the view of our eyes,
pulsating, thriving to survive
their primitive habitat.
Overloading your image of reality
to contain their misconceptions,
once known truths.
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