Short Mistruths Poems

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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