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Truth
Searching, I lift a pretty rock,
And Truth scurries into dark corners.
Like woodlice, blinded by the light,
My certainties of youth decaying
Underneath a granite burden.
When will the darkness come?
Shading me from the inquisitor glare
She gently touches me and I dissolve,
Laughter echoing upon the summer air.
I replace my rock and laugh too.
Perhaps it doesn’t matter in the end.
Frog © 2002
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