There is no truth to it

There is no truth to it

The world is not flat

There are hills everywhere

It is easy to laugh,

When the tide is out

The white sand stretches in front

Of my eyes as far as the horizon

Which is the clincher

Regarding hemispheres.

I still have two

Floating in fluid,

A spinal tap

Would ease the pressure

Release the tension

Between them.

My right brain is always

Trying to communicate

Even when it is out of touch,

Not quite as well read as the left

Although as the sun sets

The image of winged chariots

Speeding across the sky

Disappearing into the haze

As the clouds turn red

Cause a loss of focus.

The path beneath my feet

Rising up

The greeting, less than complete

As groaning joints grind

One against the other,

The Romans have a lot to answer for.

There is no respite from logic

It is no more nor less human

To wonder at the progress we have made

Toward an understanding

Of each other

When we struggle with ourselves.

The call of a White Eagle

Is a rare thing

Plucking a Goose out of thin air

Feathers fall

Like radioactive ash,

There is no school desk to crawl under

And there is no malice in it.

Nature is the strangest thing

Perhaps sentience can make sense of it all,

Do I continue to struggle

With self-ownership

Or blunder on.

Perhaps I know the answer

Lies in the confluence

Of my two halves,

Their melding

Will make me a whole person.

Perhaps then will come

A divine moment

Of Archimedean clarity

Before the light bulb explodes

And the world goes dark.