Truth Selling

What’s the way out when you’ve sold the door?

Better to own the truth

Or sell it?

Age sheds certainties like insects

Corpus sloughed, dismantled, distributed

By crawling armies of the night

Who cart it off and transform each atom into

Golden syllables

Soft-edged palmy breezes

Rainbows parked over the moon

(Not the one made yesterday

Rentable for parties and branding events)

We knew what we were doing

Didn’t do

Now we watch them construct the new world stage

Without any cloth for the curtain

Is the truth what’s left

What we try but can’t forget?

I’d rather meet a carless Buddha

Not the rocket-riding saint

I want to be younger again

Young enough to still believe