What can one trust
Or even believe in
When through the din
All thought turns to dust
Not knowing if lies are there
For what is care
Never genuine
Searching for a better version
Only to find an incursion
An infestation acts as an aspersion
An overwhelming sensation
Of aggravation
That self-dialogue
Cannot clear the dense fog
That swirls around this lake
Of solitude
A vibrating pulse of an attitude
Unable to be sure but it has an ache
Not of gratitude
Something of a more sinister sense
Which in effect places a fence
Around this rueful place
No one shall see its pock marked face
For it is disgraced by the mirror
Impossible to make any clearer
Disliking what is viewed
But this simply nurtures the vicious cycle
Of hatred spawning discord within the object of detestation
Constantly in tantalization
Of bringing something to fruition
Something genuine
Something that is always an omission
It deserves to be in demolition
An empty site
Uninhabitable
It has no right
To ruin this fable
A simple hope pierces the bog
Of someone who clears the smog
To see a poor man beating himself
Staring at a broken mirror
But where his eyes should be lays an empty shelf
Torn out in spite of fear
To show the world that it has no glory
None that can be seen
And that the remainder of his story
Will be within a separate scene
One where peace might be found
One that can be crossed in a single bound
Where a man will not be driven mad
To strip himself of sight
Where he could even be glad
To have escaped the fight
The one who comes into the swamp walks up to his side
And he does not shrink away, does not dissolve into his hide
Instead he sits tall and proud thinking this must be death
But now that he has seen the truth he cherishes every breath
No thought of what could have been
No thought of where or when
But shines an inner radiance
Not crowded by annoyance
The caring figure strokes his face
They sit there in an odd embrace
They leave the marsh together
And who is to judge whether
Anything rather than an act of kindness can exemplify
Validity