Where the Truth is Written (Day 61)

 

I can hardly see the trees anymore, let alone 

the forest, floor composed of fallen leaves,

a century's worth of organic debris, perhaps more
than I care to count anyway
you look at it, the truth is written in 

  the pattern of your missing hair, 

  the blue now faded from your eyes, 

  the spaces between the razor thin lines etched
    into the back of your hands,
  the rings you no longer wear
    on fingers so swollen from typing
    lies, that they no longer fit

your purpose now, as you can see,

is to reach the bold red X on the corner
of your map, where you imagine treasure awaits
discovery by a conquistador of your stature, you 

won't find contentment there, though,

the demise of longing, your old companion 

about whom you could elucidate, wax poetic,
compose sad songs while sipping wine
in a cafe, but no, we'd rather never hear 

some lonesome tale of martyrdom

embellished as it would surely come

from between your truth-parched lips.

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six