FRAGILITY (2004)
FRAGILITY (2004)
The Fragile Thread of TruthThe truth, itself, is not the weight we carry—
not the stone that roots us to the earth,
but a fleeting breath, a frayed thread
slipping through fingers that tremble to hold it.
It matters less in its stark, unyielding form
than in what we forge from its molten core:
a blade to carve paths through tangled doubts,
or a shroud to bury what we dare not face. Can honesty stand bare, unadorned,
its sharp edges glinting in the open light?
Or is it better to shave it down,
to smooth its rough grain until it fits
the contours of a softer, safer lie?
Perhaps we should fling it, raw and unstitched,
into the vast, unjudging air—
let it unravel, wild and unmistakable,
a comet’s tail burning through the dark.This feeling of lostness, a gnawing ache,
is a mapless wandering, a compass spun wild.
No tether, no north, no fixed star to guide—
orphaned, almost, in a world too wide.
No person to claim, no place to rest,
no thing to cradle as home’s quiet hymn.
The heart, unmoored, drifts in silent currents,
searching for a shore it cannot name.These words, these fragile sentences,
yearn for a voice to lift them from the page.
They beg for direction, a hand to shape
their stumbling cadence into something whole.
Yet here they lie, arrested in their youth,
half-formed thoughts caught in the mind’s soft cage.
The mind, unsupervised, roams reckless—
a child running through a house unlit,
no watchful eye to guard its reckless steps,
no lock to bar the shadows creeping in.What is truth, then, but a mirror cracked,
reflecting fragments of a self unknown?
It splinters under scrutiny, its shards
cutting deeper the more we seek to know.
To hold it is to bleed, to let it go
is to wander further into the fog.
And yet, we chase its fleeting form,
through mists of doubt and fields of fear,
hoping, somehow, to stitch it whole again—
to find a home within its fraying seams.Perhaps the truth is not the end we seek,
but the journey it demands we take:
to walk its jagged paths, to bear its weight,
to speak its name, though it trembles on the tongue.
For in its raw, unpolished pulse,
we glimpse the shadow of who we might become—
not whole, not certain, but alive,
threading our way through the endless weave of being.
not the stone that roots us to the earth,
but a fleeting breath, a frayed thread
slipping through fingers that tremble to hold it.
It matters less in its stark, unyielding form
than in what we forge from its molten core:
a blade to carve paths through tangled doubts,
or a shroud to bury what we dare not face. Can honesty stand bare, unadorned,
its sharp edges glinting in the open light?
Or is it better to shave it down,
to smooth its rough grain until it fits
the contours of a softer, safer lie?
Perhaps we should fling it, raw and unstitched,
into the vast, unjudging air—
let it unravel, wild and unmistakable,
a comet’s tail burning through the dark.This feeling of lostness, a gnawing ache,
is a mapless wandering, a compass spun wild.
No tether, no north, no fixed star to guide—
orphaned, almost, in a world too wide.
No person to claim, no place to rest,
no thing to cradle as home’s quiet hymn.
The heart, unmoored, drifts in silent currents,
searching for a shore it cannot name.These words, these fragile sentences,
yearn for a voice to lift them from the page.
They beg for direction, a hand to shape
their stumbling cadence into something whole.
Yet here they lie, arrested in their youth,
half-formed thoughts caught in the mind’s soft cage.
The mind, unsupervised, roams reckless—
a child running through a house unlit,
no watchful eye to guard its reckless steps,
no lock to bar the shadows creeping in.What is truth, then, but a mirror cracked,
reflecting fragments of a self unknown?
It splinters under scrutiny, its shards
cutting deeper the more we seek to know.
To hold it is to bleed, to let it go
is to wander further into the fog.
And yet, we chase its fleeting form,
through mists of doubt and fields of fear,
hoping, somehow, to stitch it whole again—
to find a home within its fraying seams.Perhaps the truth is not the end we seek,
but the journey it demands we take:
to walk its jagged paths, to bear its weight,
to speak its name, though it trembles on the tongue.
For in its raw, unpolished pulse,
we glimpse the shadow of who we might become—
not whole, not certain, but alive,
threading our way through the endless weave of being.
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