The Truth

The truth is a transparent thing,
Built of the tiny fabrications of independent moral,
Clouded by selfish motives,
Then unable to filter the light.

It slivers through our hands like water,
As we try to hold it before us,
Helpless to stop the metamorphosis,
From solid to liquid as we breath our own,
Upon the virgin form.

It fades like the words falling off the tongue,
That cover it with a produced replica,
Often just as tempting,
And often just as solid,
Usually pleasant and easier to believe.

It dries like the tears cried in it’s shadow,
When for the first time,
The only evidence of it’s presence,
Is a testimony of salt to the shoulder or pillow,
And the hollowed hearts of those who wish for it.

Truth is a controversial concept,
Welded into the minds of the individual,
In the form best fitting to those minds,
It can shape itself to harm,
And it can protect.

We manipulate it’s purpose to suit,
The blood of thousands spilt upon it.

Truth lies in the room darkened by ignorance,
And we stumble forth through the blackness,
Obsessive in finding the switch that may break through,
Shatter the darkness so that it becomes physical,
Able to touch and see,
Until we find that switch and flip it,
Hopeful of the wisdom we may discover,
Hungry for the ‘good’ of it,
And as the light fills the room,
And the truth lands upon us harshly,
Then we don’t want it.

The truth is a transparent thing,
Built of the tiny fabrications of independent moral,
Clouded by selfish motives,
Then unable to filter the light.

And that’s okay.


A/N: If you have trouble understanding this poem, just think of it like this
'I walked in my boyfriends room and flipped the switch to find him and
another girl sleeping ('naked' and rather comfortable looking) in his bed'.
Get it?
 
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