some call it tradition, repeating something

because that’s just how it is

without consideration about changes

and others say it is self deception

when the ideal is a stretch too wide,

cobwebs break apart but lies turn into

what feels like truth for the emotions are adamant

that this quiet stream would lead down to peaceful

villages, the smoke up ahead is mistaken for campfire

emotions allayed with sound reasoning bearing

little factual discernment, continue down the stream

even when vultures are high in the air,

mind them not, give another positive self talk

to calm that highly sensitive heart!

this time it is different the wise man calls,

hearken to him not

because a better lie calms an anxious mind

isn’t the proof in the pudding?

streams turn to rivers, rivers gain momentum

the rower in the boat loses control.

crashes. wham. ah, it does hurt

no stories can make whelps and burns

go away,

always a reminder i suppose when a better lie

comes along,

it dispels not the myth,

covers only what is a raging, pulsing heart

eager to unleash venom

on a cold, mild earth foraging on green grass

the other did not get,

gathering just beyond those fences,

hungry eyes stare at the better life,

coming in various forms, soothing, angry,

intimidating, seductive, vulgar,

nothing is too much when stakes are high!

then the smokes reaches the clouds,

a bellow, a stomping of hooves

and a dreamer awakens from his slumber

reaching to catch paradise

already fading with the morning star

piercing fog no longer willing to remain present

when tides recede, there is a time for everything

stories too diminish when

morning glory burst forth, swaying about

unperturbed by narratives.