A Tiny Drop of Truth
Sometimes the summer night’s hot whisper
is nothing more than a black snake’s hiss of a word
we cannot always quite discern-
a momentary corridor of connectivity
between us and the outer darkness
between the stars-
a smooth shiny pebble of a word
barely graspable in its hard
slippery-slopish-ness,
nearly as ethereal on its surface
as the thought at its dark heart,
a thought with a tiny drop of truth
in its blood, like a poison,
secretly insinuated into
the winding stream of things
in an attempt to stimulate some sort of healing
of the tear between the way things appear to be
and the way things really are,
a truth that by fevering up the blood a bit
and disquieting deep dreams
and maybe thereby prying open the inner onion-eye
that sleeps, deeply, at the center of the mind
forces itself to at least be
disbelieved.
About the Author: Jason Ryberg lives part-time in Kansas City, MO with a rooster named Little Red and a Billy-goat named Giuseppe, and part-time somewhere in the Ozarks, near the Gasconade River, where there are also many strange and wonderful woodland critters.
Image Credit: Edvard Munch: Moonlight (1895) Public domain image courtesy of Artvee
As It Ought To Be 