Sound bites nibble at my brain
as my mind explains
to my heart…
love is an abstract art.
Whether the painter or the painted,
the memoirs reflected
denote rises and falls,
open spaces and block walls
only seen by you.

Every eye takes in
a different scene, and then
professes truths and lies
that formidably reside
in one dimension
that, if mentioned,
will be filtered through layers
of masked naysayers
who appear in the nude.

Transparency is a fallacy.
No matter who the subject be,
every tongue has a coat;
ears hear different notes;
all retinas – their own skin;
each soul a unique end.
Thus, how can anyone measure
the reality of their treasure
when all the world’s askew?