hidden at the sad centre of this maze
is something that we do not wish to
find
the sort of truth we want to leave
behind
to perish in the dark of fallen days
but what we know in all of time's
delays
is that the march of pity is not kind
those things that are to memory
consigned
will pop back up right into open gaze
visions are true though we may name
them lies
and thrust the tale down into
oubliette
before a word can honestly be said
we have the art of feigning true
surprise
but not the one of counterfeit regret
for that alone we have to earn our
bread