It comes to me as a wry smile
and a glimmer of recognition.
A bubble in the mud
A watery epiphany that emerges from steamy soap suds.
In the language of light of an orange dusk, satiated.
In the sunbeams that dance in my hands.
It comes to me in the orchestra of silence
Of a nocturnal overture
When the blood pulsating in my veins
Translates to the ink on the page
And I am able to paint my discords
And appreciate the asymmetry
This is the only truth I know.