Visiting The Truth Is An Abstraction Poem by Chris G. Vaillancourt

She spoke in riddles.
Abstractions.
Vague sounds that
laid like jello
from her
mouth.

This is this,
and that is that,
and neither
right nor left
will agree.

I combined my essence
with the reality of her.

She fulfilled in me
the sense of
completion.

And though her words
meant not a
thing to me,
still I
was glad to
find her
leaping up and down
on my fabric pillows.

We decided to dance.
We swayed as if
the wind
would never
overcome us
again.

She continued
her musings
in an audible
frame of nonsense.
Shaking my head,
I agreed with every
distance she
mentioned.

At one point in our trembling,
we felt the strains of shadows
that were inclined to
cover us with
our own inconsistencies.
Lacking focus, we
imagined that
all the circles and squares
were illusions
we could recover.

I wish I knew
what her value was.
Wish I could insist
on understanding
every syllable
she muttered.

But I know that
this would be
impossible.
Best not to try.
Better to slice away
the firm plastic cans
of truth and reality.

We'll just dance.
She probably will
not notice
that
I stopped
caring about her
a long time ago.