135/365: Running Through Woods
I've lost all certainty around words.
I've written and read them
in lists and paragraphs and poems
until they've all swum together,
I've compared dictionary definitions and etymologies
year after year to jog my poor memory,
and yet they continue to describe the ideas of things
rather than the things themselves.
There is no true science.
Truth is smaller than people make it out to be.
It lies in the particular and relational,
rarely travelling a simple, single sentence.
Truth fits itself into minutes and hours.
Any stretch beyond
and the lies set in.
When viewed from a distance,
the universe is a muddy brown
instead of the phantasmagoric splashes of stars
we've been lead to imagine.
It's an ugly mess, in the broader view,
and it feels like a lie
I hate knowing.
I have this ridiculous wish
to be a child again who believes
my dictionary is the portal to truth.
It was a bible packed into my school desk then,
with soft, foxed edges where my thumbs rubbed,
its lists the strings to draw me down the labyrinth
as though I were running through woods
to find my way home.
I am writing one poem every day in 2016, and I am using the hashtag #365poems to document my progress.