T R U T H
By Gregory Banks

Does the truth lie
Within the crimson fluid
Flowing through my veins,
Or in the foreign image
Mirrors shove in my face
Like a pie in a bad
Lucy episode?

Am I a vibrant being
Whose heart beats with
As much passion and desire
As any other, or the fragile,
Deformed frame in which
My soul is trapped like
A scholar in an insane asylum?

Am I defined by
The omnipresent love
Of my Creator, or by the
Scornful glances from
Those with as much
Compassion as a dog
For the roots of a tree?

Am I another integral piece
In the jigsaw of the
Universe, or a freak of
Nature clashing with
The world like a
Tangerine moon in
A lime green sky?

Faced with a reflection
I do not know, and
Surrounded by stares from
Hypocritical eyes, I
Turn inward to find that
Which I need to survive,
Praying that this is where
My true self lies.