These Things Are True

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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.

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Note: This poem was inspired by the prompt offered by CRAZYxBUNNI, "truth is interprated in many ways. what is your interpration?"

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