The continuous search for truth
rips, slits, and soothes…
like a journey on ice it slides
towards the horizon far.
We each a turgid ragamuffin
who dare to bend; stretch
the cartilage or pull a muscle.
Rigor mortis coming in
to teach us a tale or two.
Sun spreads her fiery arms
to embrace, to burn, to bone
each shy squalid heart-excuse.
The rest of us cough like pilgrims
and decant our tales like sherry.