Truth Poem by robert dickerson

In the end it belongs to God alone
And is wholly mathematical
And innervates creation. Even in this town
Nobody would argue that two two's make four-
Or that four, dividing eight, makes two.
Or that shadows lengthen beneath the moon
And disappear by noon. Not in this world.

But words, jealous of numbers,
Say 'Look, we have logic,
Tantamount to Truth, so we're as good as you, no'?
Unh-unh. Not by a long shot. No,
For words, with their myriad meanings, at end
Offend all but the staunchest friends-
A joke of Babel's we are still getting;

Friends being them that subscribe
To your personal meaning of a particular word
With it's iridescent ironies, it's peacock tones:
Your meaning plus its innuendo, in short-
Otherwise it's war: recrimination,
Confusion-so predictably there must be
Reasons for it beyond mere definition.

Truth-don't look for it in creeds or idealogies
Or in what your friends say is true
that betokening only the need to believe
(And truest need must always be obscured)
Love Truth in Nature, which proceeds from God
As light proceeds from a star, and remember,
In this world two two's still make four