In Truth

This poem was written as I fooled around with ideas for Jason's Clarity of Night "In Vino Veritas" contest. In the end, I entered, using the beginning lines of this as the germ of the idea. If you have a thirst for flash fiction, check out Jason's contest. I'm number 64.

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.