Twenty-four-carat Godlessness:  True Thoughts Make Words and Gold Superfluous

Modern poetry modern verse contemporary poetry contemporary verse modern poem contemporary poem

The statue sits in contemplation of

The cosmos.  Round the room here all is gold,

Real gold.  You might assume he thinks of love.

Perhaps he does—but thoughts of his are old

Enough to ponder death and evil hard

As steel, as Samurai and slashing blade.

His contemplation must contain a shard

Of pain at least.  On top a hair-knot braid

Implies the complications that the mind

Must struggle with to sort out truth from lies

Of priests and scriptures, truths of life behind

Upanishads and Genesis—twice wise.

  Since wise, the trueth truth he sees forbids

     Religions’ falsity beyond true lids.

©  Phillip Whidden