It won't be washed away by
floods,
nor blown away by the Ides of March-
It'll never be left in the shadows of time-
disintegrated by fire, frayed or scorched
We can't wish it away,
sleep until it goes away,
hide from it beneath our beds-
It's chameleon by choice, stone and wood-
it's entered our lives, through our heads
It's been written,
painted, given rhythm in song,
preached, yelled, whispered and silenced-
It's been juggled, tossed, tormented and teased,
it's been met with embrace, and slain in violence
It's been tried,
convicted, appealed and overturned,
upturned, buried, dug up and justified-
Spoke of in privacy, spoke of in crowds-
Cherished, loved, shied away from and denied
We can claim it for our
own, or give it away,
we can gift it or keep it-
We can reach for it, we can touch it-
We can long for it, or to it we can commit
It can be viewed,
interviewed, construed,
it can lift us high, or pound us to our knees-
It can make us beg, plead or praise-
it can cause war, or it can award us peace
It can give us pleasure,
or take it away,
but it can't be stolen, robbed nor raped-
Most would never buy it, some might try-
from it, there's really no escape
What is...IT?
IT is...Belief and
Believing
the Truth is Within Ourselves