Seriously, what is the truth,
certainly not a closeted mind’s shadowy yeas or nays;
proofs pudding, full of time’s details,
a nation’s sooth, rewrote in ‘conservative’ ways;
exceptionalism, aah those right are white,
truth as defiled under the ‘hates’ they bray;
rules, to the masses only apply,
the ‘exceptions’ granted, to those who pay to play.
Cynicism, this world so rudely ruled,
pray tell US now, how else would one endure?
realism, cut to the underbellies chase,
laws made by whom, and to a bullet’s path de jure;
idealism, of minds so thoroughly stewed,
in kettles black, truth’s freedom, life procures;
fanaticism, from biased souls through minds transposed,
this wickedly, ideal’s allure.
Exceptions’ mean, omission, inconformity, or criticism,
of which do you employ?
create this thesis damnum,
clearly, conscience bleeds the parable’s complete bararois;
societal schisms, widen thinking’s rifts,
while debating form, over ideal is truth’s accoy;
divisions rife, rile friendships trend,
as the employer’s noose, hangs the nescient sepoy.
Personal, to whom this topic bares,
in itself, that sole accepted blame to shaken marrow;
empathy dealt its end today,
whilst among ‘friends’, one’s mind pukes that tirade narrow;
narcissisms’ crown, on the inexpedient brow,
proves but sense versus sense fuero;
nemesis, she the one to solemnly answer,
to this butt of heads, reveal the real nonzero.
Truth is due one’s tirade dirge,
let it be sung out, yet stilled in foe and in friend;
clears each mind and lifts the thumb,
once applied to thought’s flow, and cathars portend;
every stroke of one’s emotions rends,
the blight from learned, and taught commend;
thought patterned so, degrades each life,
makes moot debate, and inhibits life as it transcends.
Michael Darrell Walker