Two Versions

of a Single

Truth

Who named this country

"morning"? How apropos

to begin each day 

with a departure;

the puppet no longer

threaded to the puppeteer.

What if bewilderment 

is the only assurance

our feelings 

remain intact?

We're kidding

ourselves

if we think our

feelings are ever

in consideration.

Dreams are

a melodrama.

Why else

would we be

left stranded

amid their

shoddy stagecraft

in broad daylight?

What was oak

now plywood. 

If night is theatre,

the gist of days

happens backstage

behind the flats.

Psyche

as performance art.

Abduction by sleep

 is night's

dirty little secret,

its catechism

of randomness

defies logic.

Did I mention

melodrama?

Think about it.

You’re blindfolded,

often drugged.

Two pills 

to make you sleep

admittedly, by 

your own hand.

Better to

play your part

like a blind man

more self-assured

than the sighted

at navigating their

own darkness.

Every evening 

you enter

the play, off book,

yet promptly forget

your lines. 

Still

the body is

resigned to

hitting its marks. 

What actor doesn’t

hide behind

the part he plays

on stage,

even if the role

itself remain

un-named 

he is ready

to awaken 

a truer self

under the

lights.

One may die here,

though the promise

of an after-life

keeps things playful.

Some 

have tools

in their arsenals

trained to

remember 

its just a play. 

Funny then, that

every evening's

performance 

is nothing but

a dress rehearsal.

Mornings are 

 ouroboric;

the end comes

round to begin

again.

If we 

swallow the tale

by retracing our steps,

recalling the sounds

we heard along

the way:

the churning

of a windmill,

the exultations

of a public street,

horses snorting

in a stable...

we shall arrive

at the place

we started. 

Two versions

of a single truth.

April 26th, 2021