“What is truth?” he stated rhetorically,
And he took a nice, long look before turning to leave.
The impression: ragged feet in worn sandals,
torn, dingy robes,
scraped and calloused hands,
The servant met him with a basin.
“What is truth?” he thought confidently.
He turned over his hands in the water
And the tattered man’s words in his head:
“Why do you want to know?”
“Is this your own idea?”
His eyes rolled, mouth half-laughed.
“What is truth?” he mumbled reassuringly.
Examined his hands; yet here’s a spot.
The tired eyes hang behind his own:
knowing something he doesn’t.
He reached for the towel and feigned control.
“What is truth?” he settled finally;
What’s done cannot be undone.
He faced the light of the crowds:
lifted his palms,
eyed the sky,
waited for resolution.