As truth revolves, its facets are revealed
in changing light. My muse awaits, concealed
in shadows, steering clear of Father Zeus
(who set a slew of noisy daughters loose
in poets’ heads).
For only in the stillness, where the threads
of myth and fable intersect, can reds
and yellows, mystic blues, and shades of grey
be woven into words that light the way
as truth revolves.
In poets’ heads, illusion’s snare absolves
the writer of the story — fact dissolves
in smoke and mirror’s slanted tell, not show.
But when Lamplighter comes to me, I know
she speaks no lies.
If then, and only then, do I arise
to paraphrase, with freshly opened eyes,
the broader bearings of the lessons wrought
from living into truth, each tender thought