WHAT YOU BELIEVE

Depending on what you believe, there will be sunshine tomorrow,

Or an infernal heatwave. A bright dawn, or another boring morning

That hurts the eye. Many times, I see how one man's taste

In coincidence sours life for him, and he wanders

Through a grey maze, hoping—almost—to stub his toe

Yet once again, to prove that the worst things come generous,

Like rain. A book of uncounted sorrows says

That lie does not exist, only truth. And truth is not

An immortal proclaimer, standing astride a razor line

That parts the universe into sweet black, and bitter stark.

Truth is a canary, or a little letter with the voice of your heart,

Rewriting itself every day. Truth is a fragile human who lives

In you. If you choose, you can reach inside to make a miracle.

Make an eagle of your bird. Make a giant of your human.

Make a banner of your letter. Or, with your mind, bring life to disaster.

Twist your delicate neck asunder. Tear your own voice to slivers,

And fill your days with tiny, knowing voices, keening,

"me? me again?" until the innocent sky becomes foretold brass,

Then descends to crush you, into foretold pulp.

©Shallom