The truth is covered in labels,
but they always fall off.
It is put through a taffy puller
to make it sweet,
through a laundry mangle
to make it clean,
secured to the rack
so as to stretch it to the limit.
It seems those limits are quite high.
Men in black hoods twist the truth
with all sorts of medieval devices.
You would be hard pressed to see
in those dim torch-lit dungeons
the subtle curve in that black cloth
where their mouths stand agape
as the truth returns
to its original form.
The truth is a little mouth
that floats behind you.
None turn to face it
because its lips are always
Its whisper is a scream.
Paper rips, metal grinds
in your head.
But if you were to uncover your ears,
stand before the crowd and say
what that little mouth whispers to you,
its corners would point up
to the sky.