This little swamp
I’m standing in
is called the Belief.

That rock sticking up
above the dark, rooty water
is, I think, called the Truth.
I’m afraid of stepping onto it
as I might slip
and drown.

But I’m a man,
or so I’ve been told, and
should be utterly unafraid
to get dirty and wet when crossing
from Belief to Truth. So
what’s my story:

I’m happy in Belief
and threatened by Truth?
Or maybe 

I’ve got the labels
crossed, and I’m sinking 

in Truth and am reasonably avoiding
putting my trust in Belief?
Or do I not Believe
there is such a thing as Truth
and that’s not 
a good foothold I’m seeing
but instead is
a Lie? Or is it that

the little swamp
is a little swamp,
and the rock is a rock,
and all the dirty water
I am standing in is filth
and stink, all the names
I give them are the script 
for how I pretend to thrive,
and this dithering on and on
about changing where I stand
is the national anthem
of my country of birth?