Loving Truth

There once was a man who loved the Truth,
He had gold-nibbed pens in pearly inkwells
and a sky-blue collection of recycled paper
upon which every night he would labour
to spill his research of the day's working
so that tomorrow made more sense than today.
One day, he swung his inventory on a shoulder
and set out to survey where the day pooled,
because the jagged shorelines held old names,
and the streetside music was inherited secrets,
These were names and secrets he needed to write down,
you could see him sitting against a dropping sun,
after a long day of hot bazaars and cold companies
and wonder at the arcana inside harbor air,
Every morning he would clean two squares of cloth,
write the Truth on its uneven fabric,
and paste them over his eyes as holy ritual
Thus he wandered the world with blind justice in day;
At night he would wax into his memoir
that the world was strung of a single thread
and that there is beauty to be found in its discovery.