Myth

Myth 

Great are the urban legends that teem and bite and stare

Great are your personal myths, your demons, your perceptions

Your worries of seeing yourself as others do, 

who couldn't care

Like all men seem to, callus and brisk and harsh

There has to be an explanation, some logic--

You can’t let it be without needing to act, 

without neurosis, without effect

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Except dreams to die,

Or dreams you thought could come that never would

Even small dreams stay dreams in this landscape

Of unexpressed needs a result of fear -- because of myth, because of unknowns

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Great are the city lights that pierce the night sky

And so strange juxtaposed against the contrast of the country

Nowhere to hide, nowhere to bury like you used to

Under the dark, damp layers of farm land, rising and falling

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The city, exposing and raw, yet strangely a comfort

Each light pinned on a skyscraper like cutout stars

Each one representing a life, a dream

Great are those numbers, overwhelming and silent and uncomfortable

Making those below feel small, unaccomplished, lowly

Or not to feel at all but to attempt to ignore and conceal under the hard, unforgiving pavement

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But there are too many people in the city 

Busily working in uncanny urban necromancy, 

with no regard for you, raising shortfallings like ghostly soldiers.

After all, you come to the city begging for it, like a form of self-torturing prophecy

To brush off and get back on that same old horse and go

Though its engine is animal and not mechanical

And its strength finite instead of infinite

They say “insanity expects different results”

And being behind before the gun is motivation enough to not start

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But, you do to avoid the sneers and the smiles and the talk of

“I am doing so well. I am so happy”. Which is a myth (by the way).

Made to make you feel alone

And for a moment you are truly happy, so you tell yourself its not a myth

But it's common knowledge that no unhappy person is always that way nor any happy person happy always either

Deep down, you know the “true” truth. 

What else can you call it?

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For “truth” is subjective, 

misused too often like the words “I love you” or “I promise”. 

What does it even mean?

Mostly because truth is grey 

is pale 

is boring 

or is too shocking 

or buried 

or mixed in with half truths

Which are probably more true anyways

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For where words end there are no adjectives or nouns or verbs that anyone could say to be honest with another

Lies are words that fill the gap between what is and what we wish

And words betray for they are only as precious as each to their own

For a set falling from one person’s lips is not equal in value to yours

Or brashly strewn about in the moment without commitment,

when feeling generous or inclined 

empty currency

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It is then that myths, full of truth – at least someone’s truth, will do just fine.