This Is The Truth (a poem)

This Is The Truth

This is the truth:
we are not a single-minded monolith of coin-operated, automated, righteous action,
not an army of caped crusaders painted in primary colours,
not a force of nature cloaked in radiant light.

But then
neither are you.

There is no invincible robotic overlord,
no Sith,
no Saviour.

We are the scattered clouds, gathering.

You are the wall,
so many stones heaped up, one upon the other,
each one implacable and stern
in its fixed position,
remembering nothing but being wall,
forgetting that you were once
quarried and shaped,
carried and brought here,
each one once
unbroken and unmarred
beneath the roots and the grass,
worn smooth by the rain,
before you were fitted into place,
held together by mortar and concrete and the oppressive weight of centuries,
until you believed it was always thus
until you believed you had always been there
as if you were eternal
as if you were invincible.