Certainty—
self-assured absurdity;
fewer notions
have enwrought such erosion
and turmoil.
The self,
selling the snake oil
of knowledge—
bought and bartered
from the bank
of our trust.
Patterns and perceptions
perpetually permeate
out of the past,
passed off as fact;
like a florist’s flowers,
freshly bloomed
from the dirt
of a fleshly tomb.
We trust
the precepts of perception,
failing to fathom
the depths of deception;
we trust
what we’ve been shown,
what’s been made known,
leaving little leeway
for what was mal-sown,
or the weeds—overgrown.
If I’m honest with you
but by me I’m deceived,
can you conceive
of this fallacy?
For “Fruit of the Poisonous Tree”
also applies to thee;
truth’s burden—can you see?
If I lie to me,
even in earnesty,
I can’t be true to you.
A fleeting and fickle foundation
brings about the cremation
of words masquerading as truth—
the collapse of
our consensual delusions.
There may be no grander illusion
than the confusion created
in the soul soured
by self-deception—
a well-spring of obreption;
for from its fountain
flows oil and vinegar,
vainly vying for accord.
Tides of the Enigma 