We are but two strangers
Across a distant shore
Who share hello
and nothing more
Yet, still… there is
beauty in this
My sometimes friend
My sometimes muse
My light within
My soulful truth
Alas, of this-
You know not-
for I keep it secret
Within my heart…
The door
to the cage
has always
been open
but unfortunately
very few
people ever
choose to
walk out
of it.
More at https://facebook.com/heathbrougher/.
Truth,
a convoluted river
exists in the deepest of the ravine
like the glistening ends of the skies
it shines and glimmers in the darkness
/a beacon of hope/
for the crestfallen souls
when the darkness is sculpted
in our benign existence
screaming for hope
a dream so divine.
Truth,
cuts like a double-edged sword
through its serrated ends
slices the edges of the abyss,
/the irrational hem of the irrationality/
scrapes and scratches
resisting the erosion
those pointy convictions
moving ahead with time.
Truth,
an army of zillion stars
armed with sharp pointy ends
marches with synchronicity
carving and shaping the future
with its bloody knuckles
and it’s ferocity.
Truth,
a gaping mouth of the canyon
making it way from the steep walls
and the deep valleys
brings the shimmering piece
of the cerulean skies
longed by the bleary eyes
stuck in the ashen core of
the shared abyss,
our twisted reality.
Truth,
undeterred by the winds of resistance
chiseling and chipping away the lies
carves out a masterpiece
a beauty undefined,
damning and refuting your flagrant lies.
Truth,
a master sculptor in disguise.
Truth has a way of upsetting the symmetry of history
of smashing the platitudes of grade school heroes
wiping away purity of purpose and clarity of choices
canceling the claims of the triumph of good over evil.
Truth can’t be edited to recapture innocence
it can’t be offset by arguments of “Yes, but…”
truth sets the course for new ideas
it opens pathways to compassion.
Truth sets a table in the presence of the enemies.
The young fisherman sought truth,
the seeking filled his days.
He listened to the sea,
and he learned it.
If only his net could hold it,
but the truth is hard to catch.
Yet, once netted,
it would be his to display as victory.
Why poetry they ask
I will tell you
poetry shrouds
all those lies
hidden in miniscule
moments of truth.
In my
modest yet
notable travels
throughout this
world I
have noticed
that the
countries that
praise and
wave their
flags the
least are
the places
that tend
to have
the most
True freedom.