In truth, there is no fiction.
This hand is tan?
It’s green, say I, or other hue,
As real for me as tan for you.
What of the man who has no eyes?
Does color not exist, or does he see
Reality but with a different twist?
In truth, there is no contest.
If no contestants try
To win the prize in others’ eyes,
Then what is second best?
In truth, there is no beauty,
Though poor John Keats has said,
But truth denies where beauty lies
And Keats, alas, is dead.
In truth, there is no reason
Nor rhyme behind this verse
Beyond the thought that this was wrought
Because a lie is worse.