Where Truth Is (Poetry)

I don’t know where the truth is —
it’s old and frail and lost —
exiled to some country
grown barren, where the frost
chills the words unspoken
and thoughts make not a sound
whispers bind their secrets
and truth goes underground.

I knew the truth in passing
but now it’s locked away
and memory is failing —
gets fainter by the day
as facts blur with the faces
and edges won’t stay clear —
truth alters in the keeping
weakens year by year.

I don’t know what the truth is —
I thought I knew its shape —
imagined I could save it —
store it up and make
a concept to believe in —
a line not to be crossed —
but the truth has changed its nature
and all meaning has been lost.