Beneath my hand runs the
ridges smoothed over by the
folly of my eyes. You could
show me the real thing (and I
have enough integrity to light
a whole city), and I'd still say
"I don't think I believe it."
My entire life could be filled
like crisp white papers in an
off-white room with what is
the true, and the real, and the
authentic deal.
But knowing knowledge
and having a mind filled with
philosophies and trivia and fun
facts, hard facts, simply facts...
still leaves me susceptible to
my biases, my prejudices, my
opinions, and even if I manage
to remove my own musings,
when will the next earth be flat
and the sun at the center of the
solar system?
YOU ARE READING
CLOUDS FOR MY EYES
PoetryThis prose-poetry chapbook explores themes of clouded judgments, devotion and deconstruction, and cotton fields where a belief in purpose and a belief in freedom no longer align. New poems released every Thursday at 9PM MST/11PM EST.
