A Fragile Truth
You wonder at the audacity
of artists, kings and gaslighters,
rewriting history with new colors and characters.
The surety of their paint strokes,
a dark sort of creativity, complete
new worlds, the rest of us like children of the revolution,
heads spinning at the revelation
that black is white and none of the colors
are what we believed. Left trying
to make sense of what is and is not,
understanding how the fragility of truth
is susceptible to the con man of the hour,
whether they believe or believe in their power,
it makes little difference, in the end
you are left wondering which reality is myth
and which myth more true than you once believed
and you wonder at yourself and you poetry
and wonder who believes and who understands
that each word is simply a working out
of what might be, has been, and art
in a perfect stew.
About this poem
Inspired by the painting above, which is in the Vatican Museum, painting characters in the bible of entirely different races, clothing, and backgrounds that could never be possible in real life, yet still containing, somehow, truth. They were not gaslighters, but many people of the time saw their faith through the paintings of the time. That persists to this day.
In the French revolution, there were many, many orphans and often they were used in science experiments. In one of those experiments they raised small children to learn and believe white was black, Red was blue, etc, about all sorts of things. Then sent them into a world where none of those things were true. All of them went mad.
Truth is a fragile thing. And having to question it is soul-sucking sometimes.