a rather personal poem i wanted to share

but why does the mind always
have to be convinced of truth?
truth is in the feeling of my ankle
on this wood floor
it is in the opening of my body
to my lover
it is in my hand being an extension
of the heart
and the fact that
i cant let that line go

truth is in the relaxation
of my feet in the ocean
swallowing smooth cool
waves

in the fear of being alone
in the dark

in the summer moon
hung sultry
in august

in the exaltation of a heart basking in the presence of another- not
in the grey locomotive drone of thoughts
loud-thick-fleeting-repeating

not in the dark spiral
though endless, inviting
truth is
in the opening where
dark spiral turns to light