Truth

So it happened.
The dirt arose.
It swallowed us whole.
Its stories were whispered,
Lies were spun
Beautifully, like spider’s silk.


In a lonely house
The real truth lies
Behind yellowed walls
And a blank TV screen
Where the translucent moon
Bleeds dew on the dead grass
And the sunlight does nothing
But fade the furniture.


It started here,
In a reoccurring dream
We stepped over broken mirrors
And under a fractured firmament
And they shone through the narrow, jagged lines,
Small disjointed glimpses of hope.

It was pure.
It rained from a sky of glass
And soaked into our plastic skin.
And we just kept being alone.

I awoke.
The hole was deep.
The air was gray.
And nothing remained
But an infinite lie
And the dirt on my hands.