O say, what is truth?
I can't find it. I'm trying.
I have no dead stories, no tapestry to read from
anymore, no one to firmly
grasp me and pull, or anyone to whisper
gentleness to my listening.
So, I listen with open eyes
to all crossing pilgrims,
their firm resolve a looping journey through me.
The paths they forge so proudly
crust over with time, become vaguely treaded grass.
They say it is truth.
I can't see it. I'm watching silent.
It never takes root in my tongue.
