Left-Handed Empiricism

Light as feather
A few simple words, strung together,
Thicker than night, coursing in my veins,
Where the shadows reign,
Here the true terrors lie,
Near the muse, her sigh
Whispering through my mind,
Clearing the muddied air,
Here I search and find,
Words that are neither yours nor mine,
But taken and woven,
Borrowed or stolen,

These streets are my own,
Not paved, but grown.
Like a vagabond, I roam.

In this place, this city, this forest of lies,
Myth and tales come alive,
From which certainty could never be derived.

Thieves on rooftops,
Couples working coffee shops,
Flutes singing,
Bodies swinging,
And truth is being excavated,
But mystery elevated always above, always
with a shrug, of doubt and skepticism,
Left-handed empiricism.