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Truth or truth – Promote Yourself

 

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Truth is truth, excepting the occasions when it is not.

My Truth is not my friend’s truth,

Not my father’s truth, my child’s.

 

Truth can only be expressed in words. Relative and poorly constructed.

And words are fallible, unstable, misused and abused.

 

Words are no more than signs and symbols,

Signifiers of a subjective existence.

 

A Childs’ game of categories, to compartmentalise a continuum.

Words change, expand and contract, as endlessly they shift

As grains of sand on a beach.

 

There is no truth in a dictionary, every word a lie.

Words cannot be what they seek to represent,

They cannot transcend.

 “Ceci n’est pas une pipe.”
Truth is the trick of a conjuror, the white rabbit

No longer in the hat. With Sleight of Hand our daylight truths

Become in darkness, our deepest fears.

 

“In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God,

And the Word was God”  but my God is not yours,

Real truth lies only with the Omnipotent.

 

And what treasons are committed in the treachery of a word.

Innocence slain, commands, orders, and just cause for the belligerent.

Give your life only for love.

“Verum esse ipsum factum” – All truth is a lie.
 
© John Bullock 2013

John Bullock

Journalist, Editor & Writer
07824 602520
john.bullock@live.co.uk
http://about.me/john_bullock17
http://johnbullock.wordpress.com
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https://twitter.com/John_Bullock17

Eyes of a child – Promote Yourself

the_innocent_eyes_of_a_child_by_olivia_mira-d3bur9kI sometimes look into the eyes of my child
And pray to God and the Holy Virgin for forgiveness.
I knowingly brought her to this world.

When I seek evidence of a soul,
I find it in her. Animated, trans-substantiated.
Her very being in existence.

Proof of the divine is not etched in stained glass,
Nor the Masons folly of heaven ascending spire.
Instead a window reflected in dazzling blue.

Was my sin in creation absolved, as rough nails drove home.
Am I to be punished more than in thought verse and prose.
Belief is not opinion.

What shapes the paradox of my sinful act of creation.
How can beauty and innocence be wrong.
I do not create this world.

I sacrifice upon its altar.

John Bullock 

My first poem in >30 years

(Middlesex, UK)

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