The Source

the source, by which I mean
the source by which I judge all knowledge,
the source which tells me what is true
and what is false, tells me that
what I’ve been told is false across the board;
I start to question the source and I hear
inside me, deep inside me, a warning
that it’s not to be questioned
but I don’t know about that; what if
that message is fed to me
by the source? what if it is just
protecting its monopoly? what if
questioning is vital but difficult
to a rube like me? all I know
is that I’m failing at obeying,
at agreeing to it, at being subservient
to it. after all, there are trees
solid outside, rocks of granite
everywhere; why, the very soil is old
crumbled granite — and I don’t feel
like falling for it. what’s true is what
I can feel with my hands and skin.
what’s also true is what lies beyond those things
and sits on the edge of the vast unknowable
beyond. nothing is false — I close my eyes and imagine
a world beyond this one, both real and unreal.
it’s futile to do so but I like it, revel in it; the source
turns its head from me, disgusted
by my rejection. I like it, I truly do;
it almost is too difficult to exist,
even within me.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~`
onward,
T