Seventh Eye Metaphysical Magazine


~ David Glassman ~

Truth is curling up like smoke above my shoulder.
I turn to grasp it.
My hands reach out and touch it;
They are touched by truth,
but they cannot possess it.

Truth was once a brook playing a cool sweet tune.
I knelt to drink of it,
though I held no cup that could contain truth.
Truth slipped my porous grasp
and was yet not mine.

Truth became an arch, multicoloured supporting the sky.
At it I looked not
But at the crowd foolishly trying to grasp
this strange elusive thing.
Then I realized that truth never existed
for the only truth was the search.

A truth is no longer such
when man calls it The Truth.

- David Glassman

Copyright 1972, David Glassman - All Rights Reserved