What do you see,
How can I know that we see the same thing.
What is our truth
With our words, dull with the tarnish of use?
Where are the razor words
Keen, bright and new?
Give me a microtome knife of a word,
Slice truth into slivers.
Array them as a mosaic,
See the pattern form.
What do you see,
How do I know that we see the same thing;
I made this truth, not you,
With my thoughts, dull with the tarnish of use?
04
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minor edit 20.03.10
