by Neil Chopra
Fiction is born from the corners of minds,
Melded with purpose so morals shine through;
Stories latch on to the passage of time,
Singing in echoes surrounding our moves.
Certainty’s claim that they never occurred
Weakens not the text so eagerly read:
A lie that points to a truth seldom heard
Imprints just as well in a restless head.
A universe imagined with no bounds
Provides an infinite, welcoming canvas
To explore what only used to confound,
Unrestricted by what these eyes are handed.
Fiction’s power draws from the well of our reason,
Regardless of whether you choose to believe it.
Fact scampers wildly outside our control,
Choices of others slip easy from grasp;
History etched as second by second unfolds,
Fingers fail reaching back to alter the scratch;
But if the record is subject to question,
Can lies be displayed as truth absolute?
Examples of deeds warped into a lesson
For skeptical minds all asking for proof.
Good and evil tangle before our eyes:
The annals of time are riddled with both;
Which is which still begs no matter who died;
If fate be reversed, it sways not our vote.
Fact’s resolve is filtered by reason’s own standard,
Whether or not the legend has been left tampered.
Reason mans the gates of pure lessons learned,
Spears honed and sharpened by logic’s chisel;
Any decree with spurn’s ink will be spurned
Until amended with strikes leaving only the civil.
Fact nor fiction can escape its judgment,
Deeds and stories both file in the same line;
It alone decides who will be inducted
Or shackled and exampled so the next think twice;
No guest list can soften its iron hand,
Nor script with questions to pose when confused;
Its legs tire not in eternity’s stand;
When birthed, it rose high with its command imbued.
When all flesh leaves our bones and bodies dissipate,
Reason lives on alone, still intact and unscathed.