The art of the adept
Is the skill with which the truth
Mixes with the lie
For the truth needs companions
— It's lonely in the cold
Without gods, words, tastes shared
And the dual always waits
With a loaded pistol aimed
At whatever heart aches
To get through the smoke
Of a morning where nothing
Is left to chance,
Everything's explained, or
Everyone thinks it is at least,
The bare table that's been left for us:
The coffee is bitter,
Berries sour,
Tastes that can be shared ...
How can you survive
When it's sweeter for you
Than for others?
