Blades of Our Truth
I believed I had clenched onto the core of you,
seized and burrowed it in my chest.
Well, I thought at least
for a second
perhaps I had the capacity to decode reality.
But I didn't-
merely the meager murky smudge of it.
I didn't know the shadow:
despair that lingers at our footsteps,
even in the sunlight,
and threatens to overcome us.
I couldn't grasp the truth:
I am a wall with paint still dripping.
What makes up you and us
is what cuts us into halves, quarters, eighths
as sharply as a butcher's blade.
Because the honest piercing reality is that our shadows are infinite,
the shavings created by the blades of our truth.
But you have that all figured out, don't you?
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