What if truth is a poem?

A poem that nobody wrote?

A lyric that popped into somebody’s head

And they shooed it like a fly?

“Get out of here you silly thought!”

Some child building her diorama said.

“I have homework to get done,

And that is very serious!”

But what if that poem,

Let out of the bag like a cat,

Would have gone out into the world

And sat on the back fence in an alley,

(Much like a cat!)

And howled into the night and day

Until any old stray who came into heat

Might give in and breed with it?

And what if those kittens that were born from such mystical unions,

Wandered around the neighborhood 

Until they found homes,

And there they stood,

The great offspring of Life and Truth and Reality?

But what about us?

Were not we born

From holy mystical unions of strange bedfellows?

And do we not live?

We creatures who sprang 

from honeymoon suites

And sordid back seats all the same?

And don’t we have the stuff of the cosmos

Comprising our bones?

Composing our minds?

Our brains?

The matter pink and grey?

The dark matter?

The dark energy?

The music of all the spheres?

Why exactly is it that we can’t see

What’s truly important?

What’s profoundly important to do today?

Rather than what seems important for tomorrow?

-jenn