Truth Within
by Odin Roark

To carry one’s images,
one’s melodies as but symbols in stone,
is to know only the grating sound
of their existence, as their platelets of age
move about attempting to reveal
our personal history trying desperately
to distinguish between right and wrong.

Yet, we divert our course,
so often bushwhacking our way,
even when nature stands ready to raise the sun,
arc the moon,
lift the tides,
give direction to destiny afloat.

We gaze blindly at our tattered maps,
time’s patient gift affording navigation of mind,
only to wander blindly,
or imitate other explorers
busy attempting to know who they are.

How easily we don others' costumes,
only to find unlit stages
where audiences of you,
you, and you, remain mute,
honesty’s applause unconvinced.

Oh, how loud our alter-self screams,
even as we bury our unresolved purpose
in pillows of darkness
and pulled-tight blankets of fear.