This isn't to complicate things.
Yes. Delivered Truth can be a
Gentle Kiss
To the lips. A
Contraction
Of the iris. Or
Acknowledgement in sighs,
And an opinion sought for.
Yet Truth can be a
Scythe.
Raping snoozing, seeded grasses.
Compassion,
Deftly delivered,
Can slap-sting like whip lash
The sleeping cheek.
To tell a Truth can be
To risk
All that you would create,
In your secret, mossy breast.
To willingly
Hurl
Your child-self into the churning river;
To use ALL
The most precious milk you have
With only thread-hope of butter.
Whilst embracing a sure defeat.
All to find
That you too
Can have parity.
To win
Your own congruent self
Through hard-won transparency.
No comments:
Post a Comment