"The truth is rarely pure and never simple" (Oscar Wilde)
The decipherment of truth may be simple in identification but nevertheless thrives in a state of utter chaos - a trellis on which snakes the ivy's of emotion, the thorns of deceit, the flowers of deception, the fruits of iniquity. As blow the winds of season's life so do the leaves of poison - rotting steadfastly as do spoil the fruits of joy's labor. But then does rot the wood of trellis, peel it does the paint matched so well with nature's most pure precipitate - enamored by the billow of its mound, yet tamed by the daggers of its glass; those clinging ever so precariously to roof and shed, shrub and tree. Yes, though lessens the frigid pyramid of grace - its block but the warming of drip, drip, drip; yes, though seeps its purity within the propriety of pine's grain; yes, though it gathers at root to mirror upwards the blue of void - there is rot. And as give way the seasons to winters, the procurement of an era; when wondered infant the marvel of blossom, when imagined child the tower of trellis a barrier to treasures lost, when escaped passions utilized trellis to pursue naive, boyish lust, when I but touched the manifestation of those memories, encouraging the peel of paint, I received but a sharp reminder of reality and left, unknowingly, the stain of my legacy to steep in rot - impurities fusion.
Recently have I passed again the site of truths habitation to find in its place an imposter of similar description, similar in derivation; daunting in resemblance to what I had so frequently groped in escape. I know not whether the truths of mine have been uprooted or their lacquer restored; I hope neither of such states as I yearn to breathe once again the mold of my countenance.
Are we but often uprooting and restoring, rebuilding and expanding, absconding and embracing the truths of our trellis? I was recently at a house party and was shown, in all the gall of glory, the magnificence of ones trellis - so carefully placed and carried on throughout the gardens of emotions silt. I looked once again for my trellis and found only two horizontal beams of white, interrupted often by vertical slats of the same hue - this organizational arrangement seemed to circumference many a person's residence. It seemed ever so white, ever so pure. And yet I saw not my trellis.
Am I alone without a trellis running from ivy, waiting for winter to return? And you?
No comments:
Post a Comment