This Truth with a Face

This truth with a face cannot be settled,
So it should let me be.
Yet I cannot stop its intrusion,
Even through worthy distraction.
I read, I write, I repeat the same,
I look at its face,
But the details make no sense.
This is clear, but then it’s not.
I see that, but then I don’t.
I hear it, but apparently I’m deaf.
Hokus-Pokus, sleight of hand.
Under which shell lies the prize?
This chameleon truth confounds me.
It smiles, it cajoles, it touches my hand,
Breaks bread with me and shares my bed.
It embraces me, then stuns me.
It wakes me in the night,
Leaving me defenseless.
This truth stands me before silent doors,
Day and Night it shakes my resolve,
Forces me to choose over and over.
It pulls me, pushes me, calls Time Out.
I record it, read and re-read it, I sigh.
It takes my breath away.
No, I cannot reconcile this truth with a face,
I must grow cold to it.

This Truth with a Face—Normangee, Texas (December 7, 2005)
R. Harold Hollis