Friday, November 10, 2017



One truth I’m onto this late in life,
gleaned from research and abstractions:

Truth cannot be found
sifting through the ashes of maya;

mulling over the minutia of illusion;
polishing a tile to make a mirror.

It’s not the sought-after needle in a haystack
but more like a needlefish

a creature totally at odds and impossible
to the area of search.

To grasp the True from the false, hands must be empty –
our hands too small to grapple with both.

This is my sole discipline and duty,
the whole rest of my life to devote

toward the allowing of illusion, by grace,
to slip through my tremorous fingers.

O child of God, you spill words onto the page
knowing they can never tell the truth. 

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