Truth – Sheila Pierson

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Flying spiders, upright toads

Whimsical fairies, the mind implodes

Shadows flee or perhaps they chase

The sun that shines over such disgrace.

An open wound that drains disease –

Don’t Read My Mind If You Please!

Cotton stalks, the smell is rich

Of crosses hot and black flesh

Which will burn or hang if chosen by

White sheets tonight living high

The wind will carry through the leaves

Stories of old and dreams of these –

Hasten to capture the Truth of just one

Be wary of those who say there is none.

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