The Quest for Truth

It was finished! It was done at last!
It's final form was drafted.
I held now in my trembling hand a poem
entitled Truth, a masterpiece I'd crafted.

Through hours and days and weeks of
toil and tears and fear and strife,
I'd agonized and ecstasized in choosing
just the perfect words to give my
understanding and my deepest feelings... life.

Should I read it to my friend? No, that would
be unseemly and seem overly rehearsed.
I'll let her read it for herself.
She'll be among the priveleged first...

I watched her eyes peruse it once,
then back again to read it twice!
Then as she handed back my poem, she
smiled and softly said, "That's nice."

That's nice? I thought. That's nice?
That's all? I thought. That's all?
Was I the unsuspecting butt of some cruel
cosmic joke? Or were there hidden cameras
perched behind each nail hole in the wall?
Alas, no, that was truly all.

My chin dropped to my chest.
My heart fell to my feet.
To have my art rejected by a
valued friend was bittersweet.

I learned that in our quest for
truth, one walks a lonely mile.
There isn't room for two abreast.
Each must walk single file...


c 1999 B Philp