Until a human fact is mutually recognized,
it isn’t strictly true.
However.. until it is disputed in the open
it is neither strictly false.
Upon the fertile soil of our own mind
is where we set our boundaries..
is where we build our walls.
And all of it is right and proper..
All of it is well..

Except why is it that so many of us
find a life confined within a single castle
as a form of lifelong torment..
as a personal, living hell?
Why is it that so many castles
merely hang upon a thread?
merely a single judgement lapse..
away from their complete undoing?
from their catastrophic collapse?

The malady is that too often, either by our own
or by another’s forceful hand,
We find ourselves confined within a castle
built upon mere sand.
Eventually, we find ourselves content
with truth that’s handed down to us…
A hollow truth that floats upon the shallow.
Until our youthful beauty withers..
Until the fertile soil of our mind grows fallow.
The deepest truth, however,
doesn’t wash ashore to lay there,
ripe and ready for the picking..
waiting for us in the sand.

The deepest truth is often only felt by touch..
gentle, yet firm, of a discerning hand..
if only by a finger, lightly pressed
against the inner aspect of a wrist.
or else upon the side of a neck,
where skin is tender to the kiss.

The deepest truth, indeed,
is a truth of the heart.
So often it is truly palpable
only to those who practice..
only to those who preach
the joyful medicine of art.
Only a doctor of the soul
is often keen enough to truly sense it..
to count our heartbeats..
and to administer to us the proper cure.
So often, when our head is still in doubt,
our heart somehow already knows..
and when it knows..
we know it knows for sure.