This poem does not exist.
At least, I didn't write it.
It's crouching in the closet,
frozen, humble, quiet.

Is there more you ask?
I honestly don't know.
Finishing the poem
would be mostly just for show.

To show I finished something,
that I made a work of art.
But I didn't write the poem.
It's still crouching in the dark.

There is so much that is not true.
Am I to be the judge?
I can barely lift my foot
From truth’s black slippery sludge.  

To take the risk of being wrong
Is something only done
For sake of single, Golden Truth,
a jewel so many shun.

But risk I will, and gladly so
And never hide behind
A claim to subjectivity
Insisting truth is MINE.  

“My truth,” you say. If truth may be,
Admitting no hypocrisy.
“My truth,” a murderous appetite
consuming both wrong and right,
til white is black, and dark is light.

The louder you yell, the less the truth
contained in words you speak.
Your furious face, all goad and base,
heaving up lies at your frenzied pace  
for people brave and free.  

Your bleeding tongue, grotesque, inane.
And somewhere in the drops,
tiny specks of shredded fact,
eaten, digested, circulated, spat
back at the black-toothed, awed, and cracked.

Groutless walls you build so high
with grimy bricks of fear.
But bricks or not, rash walls will rot, for  
Truth is simmered, sturdy, stout
It’s not the brick, it is the grout.
The sticking place of Truth survives
the bloodiest tongue screaming “hoax and lies”.

There is a cave inside my eye.
Hollow, damp, moss-grown.
Secrets echo in its depths
Against wet walls of stone.

Where ancient waves have smoothed the rock
And in the darkest deep
Sits a sage, a toothless crone
With cloistered tongue she yowls and moans
And through her immortal groans
I sometimes hear her speak.

There is a cave, that much is true
But the more I think it through,
I realize that my eye can’t see
Inside this cave inside of me.  
And though I strain with heart and mind
This cave will always leave me blind.

There is a cave inside my eye.  
Hollow, damp, moss-grown.
Secrets echo there against ancient
rock smoothed by centuries of waves.
And in the darkest deepness, a sage,
toothless crone, sits cloistered.

Why is it my eye cannot see
inside this cave inside of me?