Vishuddha

We make a feast
of the most bitter truths,
and sacrifice the voice
to beautiful lies.

And only the sun,
bright but weak
in its splintered wintry arc,
can discern and balance the scales.

Naked skin pebbles
in the frozen wind —
we stand on the low rise,
surrounded by unbent prairie grass.

And here there is no escaping
that dissonant voice
that follows
and has always followed.

We are always out before it,
but know deep,
where the truth churns the lie,
some day it must overtake us.

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About Emily

I may or may not have: A. Dirt B. Ink C. Paint D. Wool under my fingernails.

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