I don’t hide the truth because I just can’t.
I can only cover it like the sun
Laughing, dancing, effulgent, wild, and mad
Behind that palette kaleidoscopic,
Soft, pristine, virginal, silent, and still.
I can’t define truth because I must not.
A measured, standardized truth is a lie,
That one bird whose wings are cut, that can’t fly;
That one song whose lyric is pretty yet empty,
And whose only strength forgettable melody.
I must not define truth because there is not one:
There are truths, half-truths, some breathe out black smoke, some white;
Positive, negative; chilly days, summer nights.
A painting more truthful, whose lines both blurred and defined,
That truth, like a chiaroscuro of light, is divine.



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