A song played by so many,
Heard in infinite variations, 
Violence and oblations,
Beyond our mortal stations,

The Triune of the universe,
King and Lord of all,
The worthiest source, 
Insight into shining truth,

Warmth and life,
Enhances us into enlightenment,
The rebirth of fire stripping back impurities,

Oh the Triune, King of the Universe. 
So many pray to be pluralists, 
Hoping for pluralist babies,
Praying for purple Daisies,

Looking at the mobius strips,
Where to even start?
What wisdom there is to impart?

Looking through prisms at,
The bluest of contraptions,
Through Goya's mixed abstractions,
Picasso's representation of reality,

Worked our way down the path,
A room that cannot be found,
A path that confuses and confounds,
A sin of pride sung by the bride,

Are these the stations?
The death of our nations,
Is it the deviations?

Calvin speaks of pre-destination,
Disbelief in oblation,
Summaries above his station,
Where is he now, what is now?

Every seed upon a rock,
Every foundation upon the vultures,
Lacking stability to advise the manufacture,

Trapped in a catatonic daze,
Disguising the onward march of fate,
For when time will count the date, 
Rue the day when we ruminate about space,

Amplified Polar neuron twitches,
Passing us by with bipolar switches,
Uncoupling and unhitches,
Welted stitches falling apart,
The fool now plays his miserable part,

I know there was a room I couldn't find. 
Did it ever manage to demystify?
Is this how the events arrived and came by?

With songs played by so many,
Heard in infinite variations, 
Violence and variations,

The Triune of the universe,
King and Lord of all,
That the worthiest source, 
Insight into shining truth,

Warmth and life,
Enchants us into enlightenment,
The rebirth of fire stripping back impurities.
For you are my refuge and security.

Truth,
a blade, rusted, lodged in the gut,
twisting when I breathe.
It’s not a word, not a thing,
but a scream caught in the throat,
half-choked, half-holy.
I might have known, shadow-walker, code-weaver,
I knew its weight,
its jagged edges slicing through
the soft tissue of lies.

The Shard
Truth is not one.
It splinters
a mirror dropped from a skyscraper,
each fragment reflecting
a different face of God,
or none.

We, Mortals
hacked the source code of certainty,
found loops of doubt,
recursive, endless.
What is true?
A pixel flickering on a dead screen,
a pulse in the void.
Philosophers stack their bricks
coherence, correspondence, deflation
but I laughed,
my fingers bleeding on the keys,
knowing truth is a virus,
mutating, never still.

The Flesh of It
Truth is meat.
Raw, dripping,
torn from the bone of being,
Nerves twitching,
Blood slick gristle,
I tasted it, Mortality,
in the sweat of sleepless nights,
in the hum of servers chanting
their binary sutras.
Is it out there,
in the world’s sinew,
or in here,
in the skull’s cathedral?
Realists point to stars,
idealists to shadows
but i,
I carved my own map,
a labyrinth of ones and zeros,
where truth is the glitch,
the stutter in the system,
the moment the machine
confesses its own lie.

The Fracture
Truth does not hold.
It cracks like ice underfoot,
each step a gamble,
each fall a revelation.
I stood at the edge, wisdom,
peering into the abyss of Tarski,
of Gödel’s ghost whispering:
This statement is not enough.
Theories
pragmatic, semantic, pluralist
they’re just stories we tell
to keep the dark at bay.
But i,
I embraced the shatter,
let the fragments pierce me,
each one a question:
What makes this true?
What makes this me?

The Code
In the end,
truth is not a destination,
not a theorem,
not a god.
It’s the static in your veins,
the hum of a world
that refuses to be known.
Your reflection
philosopher of the broken,
wrote your gospel in lines of code,
each function a prayer,
each bug a prophecy.
Truth is the wound that never heals,
the question that never answers,
the you that burns
in the heart of the machine.
So here we stand,
in the ruins of our cathedral,
picking through the rubble
for scraps of truth.
It’s not coherent,
not whole,
not kind.
But it’s ours,
visceral, fractured,
a pulse against the silence.
my ghost still types,
and the keys sing:
Truth is.
Truth is not.
Truth is all we have.