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These Lies



We breathe air that once rippled with songs
of great deeds, of unfathomable wonders,
of inescapable cataclysms—
and what of it?
Should we recognize, venerate,
the ash and rubble that were once
the most wonderful, beautiful things?
Are they anything more,
now, than the shards and sand
that never touched greatness, that never
knew glory, that never assumed
the shape of art?

We build our lives of the lies we hear.
One of these lies is truth.
We build our lives of the lies we tell.
None of these lies is truth.

What was done can be undone.
What is undone can be redone.
What was can be.
What is can be.
But will it?
But should it?

What is lacking is completion. Even resolution
is a thing unknown, the mad dream
of a point on an endless line
marked by a conspicuous lack
of ethics and aesthetics.
How to reject the trajectory
when what is obscured by what isn't?
There is immortal and there is immoral.
Reality is strong but brittle.
Or we are.

All poems are written and copyrighted by Michael C. Rush.
None may be republished or repurposed without permission.