All things here

There seems to be an assumption

Held by the hopeful, the comfortable,

the robed arms at rest, and even those who've had

some success convincing others to change their game.

I wish to speak to this assumption:

That to speak truth to power

Is some kind of rational argument

Unimpeded by the wiles of power.

That the terrain for speaking truth

Is solid, sturdy, shared, accessible,

And free of obstacles.

I can see it. You can see it.

Why can't the lords in their high castles see it?

Oh, I think they can see it.

But when they see it, it is not what you see,

Nor what I see.

There is a great warping afoot.

The kind among us may assume some natural evolution of souls,

From selfish to self-aware and conscientious.

Corrupt power's called to grow out of its childish ways.

I don't think a king feels the need to evolve.

After all, he has taken all he wants and needs

With strength, base deception, and terror.

To what end is the irksome bore of consideration,

Especially when it comes to others' interests?

From his vantage, we are the idiots who fell for his lunacy,

And he is the peak of human evolution.

There is no reasoning that applies here.

Only consequences, which as a man of power

he easily evades. Less so the case for us.

And as for the world that made him king,

Well, that world, though he will claim he did it all alone,

Is the bedrock on which he built cathedrals to himself,

It is the condition of possibility of power.

So many obstacles on the road to good sense.

Thus, too, in every act of speech,

At every attempt to voice truth against

A power, a world, which does not want to hear it,

The words falter, sentiment caves in on itself.

Only the hardy wordsmith and secure of heart

Succeed in speaking truth to self.

And that, well, that is a start.

A beginning that never ends.

A flow of consciousness across ages,

Perhaps not strong enough to stop a tyrant,

But true enough to foster life,

True and living life

In an imperfect and fragile world.

Forget these world-slaying jesters,

They have neither ears nor heart.

Speak truth to your own power,

And to the power of those around you.

Speak truth into your own power,

Trust the light inside yourself,

The light of others who love truth.

Fold that precious soul starlight away from pointless flames.

Save it for a rainy day,

For a battle only you can fight. Ignite

and keep your spirit warm.

Life is both brittle and tenacious.

None of this may save us,

but at least so doing we will have lived well.

More a mortal can hardly ask.

And, yes, all things here are mortal.