Wings of a truth fly far,
Brush against certain falsities:
A touch that suffers
The pangs of the solaced
Heart of pumice. The solid
That refuses its destiny.
Should we sink?
Separate feathers of your lost
Bed that grins. Obstinate
Couches crouch in a
Huddle of rapture
To weep or laugh?
Water coats the quill
Dipped in the fluid characters
Of that lie. Give up
A truth. Wings follow
And come to know
That a truth is not
The Truth. Carry it
Far from the sun
To burn in ash-less
Grace. The lie is.
The truth is not.

1 March 2005