truth as a maybe

surrle2

Maybe we were all wrong,

believing the lies that spill from our mother's mouth,

believing the deceit that fogs our clouded memory,

maybe we were always wrong,

and no one told us that

the sun never sets and always sleeps

while 

the moon remains a projection of our crazed fantasies, 

forever lighting our sky with false hope



Maybe we never came to our own birth,

sitting in the corner of heaven

waiting for the day of deliverance,

but, 

maybe we never came to our own funeral,

death being an inanimate object,

resting on a shelf, collecting dust.



Maybe our daydreams are windows to reality,

that are simply locked in the levels of

inescapable dreams,

And maybe that's what life will always be–

A dream within a dream,

that is never fully realized 

as a figment of conceptual space.




What remains

remains

remains 

unseen in the eyes of the beholder,

Can truth be forced on a believer?

Or does it fall between the sidewalk cracks

because no one cares to pick it up.



Maybe we will always believe what we're told

even though truth is plastered on a billboard,

the creatures of the night splatter paint against the soft spoken words

to hide the way to freedom,

for some strange reason.

And for some strange reason, we don't scrape the lies from our eyes,

even though the truth is evident 

and sublime.


Maybe we will always be lost 

in translation,

swimming for hours to find a Savior of debris,

seeking for the depths of unity and despair

in a world that cares very little 

for common sense.

And maybe we never will.

 

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