Telling the Truth


The topography
Of what is straight, uneroded
Between two proximal points,
Uncurved, shaping a beginning
Carved into a heart-to-heart magnetism.
When one mouth, like a buzzing mossie
Makes a sound in one’s ear
That rocks to and fro,
Even quaking in spasmodic forces.
Aeolian truth, that begins
As a voice, that is untarnished
Unadulterated, and metamorphoses
To a thundering echo inside invisible walls
Of an empty room, housing
A creature so unanimalistic,
Yet always prowling,
Exiting through pads of fingers
And lipful succulence,
As pure as moving glacial snow,
To the heat of that little chamber,
That has no air-conditioner,
Only a fireplace that combusts
To truth logs.

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