Everything Has a Face

Everything has a face Just like my Brother’s old backpack Hanging in the closet with its snares and tares And every time I look At it seeing its entirety, places it’s gone, baggage it has carried I see His face in my mind Everything has a trace Like that math problem on the page probably constructed by a Desperate engineer worrying about How he was going to make a means For his family, if he couldn’t pay the certain debts To escape the logical death that numbers arrayed And the variables in his life wouldn’t make a way Like I care about the strain and pain That produced the proof of those numbers, the name associated with every association that deceive every man and whisper to him to sway between the veil of the cave and the sun ...Must make the sun have a face too Everything has a name as I’m sitting here thinking that I knew the oppressed One’s agony Only to face the reality of pain in the passing of sincerity Words of nature in my head, now wisdom nurtured in my heart When my Brother’s baggage became mine Hey Plato is that why all of your forms are capitalized The Truth with a big T, and Goodness with a big G They’re proper nouns Then I can say what Goodness is and Truth is--wait... Not what, its who Who are you Reveal your person, your face And in my disgrace I’m back to the name Of my Brother artistically etched with as tory in every line of that backpack Like the lines in your weary eyes That only the shaper, not the beholder can define So, I gotta say with my all my mind, heart, soul and strength That Love has a face that payed a hateful price Justice has a face that bears a wrath of no strife Goodness has a face that surpasses the troubled time All of which must’ve been embodied because existing is better than being studied And even Evil’s got a face And it works with the material schemes Of man’s illusional machines It doesn’t breath, but works in ease, the idol of man’s Dream With a solid face, it continues until it breaks And ties man to the black chains Devoid of blood, but bleeds the wrists and forsakes to the flame It’s easy to talk about God in a cave, like I have But I can’t experience Him until His face is shines, His voice beckons Though I’m a die-hard fan of philosophy I can’t live it Socrates with his red, swollen eyes is right in saying nothing can be known Sleepless all night, trying to figure out what the ring means And everything Gyges lost and can’t be found through the slaveman’s shepharding It’s not the art, but the artist that wins Trace me, I’m nothing And by my knowledge, I’m not truth’s author, I who sin Name me, I’m nameless Tell me what’s simple, what I’ve never known Grace me, because I own none Face me, oh beauty, because You are devasted when mine disowns You It’s not what truth is...it’s Who