Truth

For Last Poet Standing
Week five: Picture from The Mysteries of Harris Burdick

Truth is a funny thing.

They say , truth is what is real

And real is what is fact

And fact isn’t fantasy.

Music is real.

Harps are real, and rivers

that flow, spoiled by rocks

but not ruined;

for a rock does not stop the river

but shapes it

causes tilts in the river’s music

as it spills into itself

like a finger plucks a harp string

and it resounds,

filling the air,

filling me

with some kind of wonder.

It’s true.

Just as true as the trees

as true as the sky is blue

as true as the loyal one beside me

who never leaves.

what I saw is true.

But they say, truth is what is real

And real is what is fact

And fact isn’t fantasy.

And what I saw, that day in the green gold woods

is fantasy

can’t be fact

can’t be real

can’t be true-

they say.

the music was on its own

no hand pulled at the harpsstrings

pulled at my heartstrings

making something so beautiful all I could do

was stand

and wait for silence

that didn’t come for how long I don’t know

the sun gleamed gold through the trees

gleamed gold on the harp

that sat on the stone,

sleek with moss and sang,

The harp

is the bridge between heaven and earth

and in that moment I knew

that that is true

as true as anything ever was

The music- the harp that sang of its own accord

not hindered or helped by human hand

was like nothing I’d ever heard

in halls

or homes

or hearts

it was a glistening

of lost and open sky

a cool hand

a warm breeze

a rose, laced with frost

but not withered

so alive

and the trees swayed with it

the river sang with it

I stayed with it

watching

waiting

full of what is real

what is fact

what is fantasy

It’s true, the music, the magic

it’s really true.