I never know the truth or always know the truth
(either one) and it is only my particular thumb
on the scales that bears false witness;
false also because of what it takes lightly.
My thumb an adoption, an adaptation
according to my individual predominant fears.
The last neti-neti ends in nothing . . . or
everything
but, perhaps it doesn’t matter what the truth is
out there but what it is in here
when only silence is left, vastness,
stillness and darkness, the guttering flame
at last having gone irrevocably out.
O child of God, dance ‘round and ‘round
‘til you’re ready to stop and face the music.
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