What is "truth"? Is it just a figure Of speech,Or is it an actual Aspect of life,
Which slips through our hands,
As we reach out and try to clench,
It's very fabric in our hands,
To grasp its meaning.

is truth just a thought,
Or an impelling unseen force.
Which can mend things that are broken,
Yet cause more corruption,
And catastrophe.

People constantly say,
"Tell me the truth."
Yet they are told what they want to know, yet who are they to question, for have they grasped the shadowy tendrils of truth which precede to even confuse the wisest of minds?

These questions flow like a river in the back of my mind,
Which is swelling and threatening to overflow,
As I ask myself,
"how are we ever going to grasp,
The shadowy tendrils,
Which so many people have said has set them free? Maybe one day we'll know and at last we will be able to reach out,
And grasp "truth" in our firm hands,
But when this will be I do not know, and only time will tell,
But until then truth remains,
An abstract painting,
A mystery, which we as a whole cannot solve.