For this flight is there enough food to nourish the dark and horrid famine? Plenty water to ease across the razor’s barren edge? Sufficient breath to coax this; a collusion deep within? Is there ample shelter from this; a deceitful tomb? (Truth. Is there none?) Who needs the truth? Lies are more valuable, made to easily pass through the takeoff's devising eyes. It’s the clever packing of truth and lies into a single carry-on that is the trick. (Lies?) Yes! It won’t turn the plane’s shadow into flame. (Flame?) Yes! It won’t cut the neck of slipshod freedom. (Freedom?) Yes! It won’t bring massive terror to the shores. (Terror? Freedom? Flame?) Yes! Lies! Lies; packed together as one, more easily sound round, edging near enough to truth. Copyright © 2006 mrp / thepoetryman
(The Weaver's Song)