Who wants this truth
That is flowing like a river from the sun
And cascades all over my life
In a nurturing flood
Of Abundance and bliss?
Who needs the touch of the warm wind,
The hypnotic sound of the ocean’s waves,
And the comforting embrace of a lover
In the middle of a raging snowstorm?
Why would I share these worlds?
What might they bring me
Or take from me if I sat only in silence
And said nothing of the thousand worlds
Inside my head?
What should become of those
If each were hidden in a prison of my mind’s making,
Each submitted to a rigorous test before allowed
To grace the glorious light of day?
It reminds me of the dawn:
In the morning, the sun brings the birds and their music
Until the discordant logic machinery disrupts
The day’s symphony.
These things my path consists of;
How many countless times have I lost myself
Justifying my truth to the birds who only care to fly,
The sun that only cares to shine,
The wind that only cares to move about?
They’ve no use for my justifications
And neither do I;
Truth exists sans words and reasons
And requires I justify
Nothing to my strictest judge: me.
My art is my truth,
My truth is my life,
My life is my being,
My being is this poem:
Nothing more I will explain.
© copyright 2016 John David Higham