There Are No Facts, Only Interpretations

 

We dress up our eyes

In the suits of perspective,

Tie knots of conviction

Around our necks.

 

The world’s a stage

Where truth shifts with the light,

Each gaze a script

Editing the scene.

 

In the corner,

An old man insists

The shadows are solid,

A beggar trades

Silence for alms.

 

A child looks on,

An empty slate,

Sketches a bird

Where we argue sky.

 

No fact to anchor,

Winds of whim and whisper

Unfurl the sails,

Chart courses into mist.

 

We nod, we argue,

Fetch bones for dogs,

Interpretations

Scurrying after.

 

At the end of the day,

Our pockets heavy with stones

Called certainty,

We wade into dreams,

Folded maps

In hands that tremble.