Which truth holds the kernel
Dewy-eyed philosophers gibe
Semantic brawls through alleyways of thought
Induct the meaning of is
when only the past defines us
Limmericks bred of spittle
thick-rimmed, black lacquered spectacles
A sight for reborn eyes, a burning bush waving
Crimson streaks mark rivulets
From drawing rooms, smoking chairs
billowing anathema, Churchill stalks the halls
Forgotten fields, razed crops, sheets of linen
But everything is relative, so I tug at
the tendrils of binding, sprawled across
300 million minds, self regard and jars of camphor
Crane my neck over miles of cloudless sky
Where peaks burrow into lint-filled pockets
and limitless ability is whetted by reality
Drapes mask the enigma of man
Persian carpets conceal the wicked abandon
the distance of meaning, gulfs of nothingness
I am a hole waiting for absolution
and the non-existent plug
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