And What Is Truth? Poem by Chris G. Vaillancourt

In mystery I wonder,
if the bombs exploding
are exclusionary feathers
cracking in the fluttering
light of the truth.
And what is truth?
Pilate sprung this question.
It was a good one to ask.
Evolving propaganda
machines
flip their
meanings
left or right.
Vanishing morals
give their
last gasp.
We emerge from
electric time zones
convinced only of our
own drumming.
Still the bombs explode.
People die.
People live.
Nobody knows why.
Labels. Tags. Definitions.
All offered.
All denied.
Unknown to me,
or anyone else,
crashing walls
begin to implode
from the inside.