These Things Are True
The days are long. The morning sky is grey
and the air peopled with tiny droplets
of rain. Every thought I had while
leaving the house, locking the door,
walking to the car, driving to work
is now gone. Unremembered
is never-was. The days are short.
My desk is littered with papers, sheaves
of unaccomplished tasks, gathering into piles,
thickening like dust. Already this poem
is half way done. Droplets of rain are fragments
of rivers, lakes, oceans transmuted into steam
and carried high, high and then cooled
and re-condensed into liquid. Already today
is halfway gone. Time flies like a treadmill,
and I can't slow down and I can't stop. Somewhere
beyond the white walls of this office space
are the lives of people I've never met,
their truths no less supple, no less rigid,
their secret selves hidden and raw,
centers of their own heliocentric universe,
existing in all their fullness as though I do not exist,
living as though I have never been.
Note: This poem was inspired by the prompt offered by CRAZYxBUNNI, "truth is interprated in many ways. what is your interpration?"
YOU ARE READING
The Poetry ProjectPoetry
The Poetry Project was ongoing from early 2013 through April 30, 2014. It invited readers to submit prompts, which I turned into poems. The prompts were quite varied and let me stretch my skills, like doing calisthenics. The project is over, but th...