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Whose Truth.

You have no monopoly
on truth, says Daultil.

It wears a many coloured
coat; each one picks out

colours for their own cloth.
We sit like those in Plato’s

cave seeing shadows dance
upon the wall and think those

shadows reality and the fire
giving off flames some god

who cares. Daultil sips his
flask of booze. You watch

him lift it to his lips. His words
hang around your head like

flies about a horse’s eyes.
Glunk glunk goes his flask

lifted by him to take his fill.
He sets it down, wipes his lips

and says, Pilate never knew
the truth, he thought it just a

random choice of this or that
of this sad world’s philosophies;

he could not see beyond his
nose or dull thought’s reach.

You keep your silence, watch
as Daultil undoes the buttons

of his pants and pees, his fingers
having DTs shake the piss upon

his pants but he doesn’t noticed
or if he does he doesn‘t care just

lifts his head like some dozy bull
and looks at you with vacant stare.

poem by Terry Collett
Added by Poetry Lover
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