Perhaps I’ve traveled too far. Perhaps not enough.
Perhaps traveling is not about geography but traversing the soul.
What I believed was the truth bore me down the river
With rocks and rapids until
the falsity turned the river into a stream and then
a dry trickle.
I missed the truth because what I thought was important
–the white spiral-bound book I’d written–
still lay on the shelf
as 75,000 words of blood squeezed
dry of white lies.