The Truth
The truth comes to me
The truth loves me
But I don’t love the truth
Unless it’s the truth of couplets
Winding and twisting their way
In and out of waxy eardrums
Gone bad. I don’t know the sound
Of birds wings beating against
The rhythm of blues
But blue skies have no rhythm,
Only harmony. And harmoniously
Inconspicuously I crawl
And my shadows torture those
Who would like to watch.
I don’t know why you would like to
And I hate you for it.
Copyright © Brooke Wolfe | Year Posted 2007
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