Emotional truth should never get a free pass.
All too often, it’s a noisy intruder
lashing out in blind frustration.
It devotes endless hours to
reconstructing bones in the desert
in a vain attempt to reanimate
an imaginary creature.
When it thinks you’re a captive audience,
it will usher you into its hail-damaged garden,
assuring you that you’re always welcome,
so long as you don’t stray too far
from the muddy path that leads
straight into a brier patch.
Emotional truth wants you to embrace its delusion
and share in its song of misery.
It’s a message lost in the howling wind,
a testament to wasted time.
