The truth is…
Very little has changed day to day; they are still empty, the rooms are still empty, the soul is still empty; alone in a home, no bother for even light, save what pierces the tightly shuttered blinds, preoccupied in the darkness by a broken record, and the aged dust that collects on the needle
The truth is not…
An easy companion who proffers preferences, unless to the easily fooled; to some, it is as plain as the empty day, and the beseech of a noose’s fray; to many, it is a remontant rose, that comes and goes with each fickle palate; in the end, in defiance of one’s own sanity, it can be the sole impossibility
Maybe…
As the heroes rise with the death toll, and the helpless are dismembered by avarice, and the incompetence of those elected once again eclipses their hitherto very worst, maybe a lonely soul in the darkness, needn’t lust for a privileged end
Maybe the truth is not that very little has changed;
maybe the truth is only now coming to light
art: waning dusk by Margarita Georgiadis
a.d.matthias, nascent writer.
You can read more of a.d.’s writing at < re/undefined >
Heretics, Lovers, and Madmen 