Illusive Truth

Truth melts now like frost on a windshield at dawn,
wiped away by practiced hands before anyone asks
what the cold ever meant.

In quiet rooms lit by blue screens,
we swallow headlines like over-salted soup,
grimacing, but finishing the bowl.

Facts sizzle and vanish,
drops on a pan too hot for honesty to settle,
and we learn to call the smoke “clarity.”

Across borders, the air itself feels rehearsed,
flags ripple like stage curtains hiding rewrites,
voices sharpened into instruments that echo
but never resonate.

Leaders speak in mirrors: reflections of reflections,
each more distorted than the last,
a hall of glass where morality slips on its own polished surface
and fractures into slogans.

We watch, applauding or jeering,
unsure which sound belongs to us anymore.

And somewhere beyond the noise, far under a patient sea,
a dolphin arcs cleanly through water,
no disguise, no revision, no shadowed intent,
its body a single, fluent sentence
that cannot mean anything but what it is.
It surfaces, breathes, disappears,
truth unpracticed,
and therefore whole.