Clandestine those inner whispers be,
when the self may hear and somehow grasp the truth;
in caverns deep, in shadows blackest night,
secrets held from conscious mind do swell,
for all the lack of telling, festered, tainted they,
deepest cloak and dagger yields withheld.
When mind descends to inner sanctums bleak,
conscious of the bounty there in hold,
to unleash truths that rather not see the light,
and rock the world the truth be told,
as tremors harsh crack that delusion of assurance,
and rise those precious lies that hid so long.
Epiphanies denied, writhing discomfort rise,
as truth hits light and plans unfold,
cognizance bleached of delusion sold,
to placate the truth and aching realities,
accepted as well dressed versions
of what a mind would rather true.
Oh pain, the ground shakes with your wrath,
what firm ground held now falls to truth,
as lies to dust reveal the ruse,
and there’s no escape now from what we’ve done;
and so we bend to accommodate the mark,
the level of what we can in truth ask,
of our inner self.
Tony DeLorger © 2016