Truth.

What is truth?
Is it what the scientist says?
Is it what the newspaper says?
Is it what the teacher says?
Is it what I say?

Who can tell me where truth is?
Where is it?
Where has truth gone?

The scientist says to me The Earth is flat. The heavier the object the faster it falls.
The Newspaper tells me Our Country’s bad and the Enemy is good
The teacher tells me I evolved. That I’m special.
I tell myself I can have my own truth. Truth as accepted by my peers.

In a dimly lit corner of a restaurant sat four people.
Who are these people? Some have called them friends. Some have called them family.
What are they here for? What are they doing? They appear to be eating. As you edge closer you realize they mean no harm, why they seem very innocent and friendly.
They are chatting away about this and that. Laughing and crying and tipping their hats!
Loving each other and the rest of the world.

I'm tired.... I must have too much phlegm in my blood (as they would say in antiquated medicine). In the cafeteria tonight Jo the twin made me a great cappuccino with her cappuccino maker. I sat talking with two girls about objective truth, and somehow the caffeine and the objective truth mixed together to increase the level of phlegm in my blood. Anyway, I'm sleepy, tired, smoky (people smoke in the cafeteria at night), and somewhat ambivalent now.

Flowing in
Flowing out
The world seems to turn in short jerky movements.
The whole creation seems to be still for a moment.
Turning Left.
Turning Right.
Moving with the beat

Spilled over-
Glowing leaves of pale silver-
Glittering stars mirrored in shining grass-
White trees bear Orion like flowers in flax.
Streaks of rose across an indigo sky-
Slender as bowstrings the Elves tie.
Twined branches wave over the grey expanses-
Into brown pond fall the broken shadows of trees' lances.
Like faded memories of autumn leaves the lawns lie-
A dim glimmer under a chalky sky.

age = 13-16

I am in a room
A room of images
Past, present and future
All are represented here

As I look into these images
And their mahogany frames
I realize that they are images
of me
Of times ahead, behind and those
now

I see a writer, weaving stories
I see a child, dreaming of
flying
A bunch of teenagers, playing
Nintendo
A soldier, fighting for his
country.

From my bed in the corner of the room I watched the sky turn from purple to midnight-blue to black, the square of window-light glowing softer and softer 'til the room was left in darkness. And still I lay listening to a low narrator's voice roll through speakers by my bed. Rolling, rolling, rolling, his voice curled the white surf waves on the beach of black Africa, filled the darkness in my room, and rocked me to sleep. Dimly conscious, I stopped the audio tape and set my alarm. Then, I dreamt of Marlow and Kurtz and the helmsman in Conrad's Heart of Darkness.

Every morning the dawn finds you,
on the hill with crook in hand;
watching over your master's herds,
in this pagan, foreign land.

Trusting God to show you His light,
guarding the sheep every day.
Still on the hill you are come darkness,
and through the night there you stay.

Grasping always unto your faith,
trusting God to show the way;
one day His light shines through your darkness.
An angel standing bright as day.

August 12th, 2002

A tear formed in her eye. She watched as he disappeared off into the fog. Would she ever see him again? This was happening all around the country. The love of her life was leaving. The wind howled. For an instant the world seemed to fall apart. Could this really be happening? “This is America.” She thought to herself. “How did it come to this?” She knew that he could be like the many who go but never return. She longed for that one more conversation. That one more phone call. That last rose. Many of her friends where going through the same pain she was in… lonely, confused, forgotten.