a grasp of truth, by Brandon Haut

A grasp of truth…

I’m beginning to lose my grasp of truth. It seems the seams are loosely knit, a tangled fray of fiction. Who is everyone? Are you? Do I understand the same as you? You appear to me as always been, always will. But a second glance is worth some thought. A deeper root, a twisted vine ensnares your vital moral self. One can’t be sure of what is not, behind that two-way mirror. Don’t tell me now: it’s not for me; it’s not what, therefore, is meant to be. Yet my lonesomeness has piqued, and my skeptic septic tank is full of rotting half-baked thoughts. Maybe all that was just a wish—a summer wish of auld lang syne, floating nicely through the pines and resting calmly in the field. That’s where I’d rather be. Instead of this concrete bed: a meadow. Instead of these iron bars: some woods. Rather than a ticking clock: the sun. Rather than reproachful night: the moon. Rather than the stark true you: the dream, the sunny reverie of what I always hoped was you. And time will stand still then, as I always hoped it would.

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