"What is truth?"

My poetry thus far has fallen short, it seems to me.

What I should have strived for is this -

A poetry that now thirsts, now burns,

thirsts with a scorched and parched thirst,

and burns with a holy, holy desire for the truth

and nothing but the truth,

regardless of the beauty.

But here am I,

Pathetic poet stuck only at the beauty,

Creating beautiful phrases and clever images.

My poetry at times

Feels like a room shaken emptied of the philosopher

Who once lived therein.

How I yearn for you, realism and truth,

For I have had enough of unreal fantasies,

What I want is the truth.

For I would live in a lie, would live in a delusion,

I am a lie, I am delusion'd

If I refuse to seek the truth

Amidst the noise and the lights 

Of this soon fading world.

And what is truth, I ask, blind man that I am.

O tragic, pitiful irony, that I ask this to

Him who knows, him who is the answer.

He alone can unbind me, unblind me.

"What is truth?"

burning,

 burning,

  burning,

   burning

For amidst the daily shopaholism

Which I fail to perceive within myself,

I forget what I am.

I look at money and what it gets me,

I forget the truth.

How I have fallen short.

Would that I could be the poet

Who walked into the black night

With burning torch in hand,

Turning night into pure light.

If only we could see, then we could know the truth.

If only we knew, then we could do what is right.

For it is only in choosing light over dark

That we find true peace.

burning,

 burning,

  burning,

   burning,

torch in unblind poet's hand