STUBBORN OAK

Time stands still, now, where we are,
feeling our way through the dark,
fingermarks, on thorns inflicting wound,
fears, thick...in the new age of rhetoric.

Stubborn oak still stands,
held erect by wrinkled hands,
and things still yet to prove.

Wading through the muck
of untruths and half truths,
that seep through the seams
of old fabric and tired ideals,
through archaic movements,
years removed.

Open the eyes and peer with vigor,
far beyond the sea, rest weary feet
upon the sands, truth has its demands
in waves, washing away the debris.