On the Nature of Truth

Sylvan leaves fall softly forming fountains
In the ether. Golden streams flow swiftly
Over stone and earth eternal. Plum trees
Blossom, flow’ring, silent in the mountains.
Beneath it all the ephemeral ants,
Covert, play an endless melody. Rain falls,
Wind blows, a miasma settles, enthralls.
A scene so beautiful, or a pithy romance?
Is nature an ultimate truth? Perfect,
Garden preserved for all time, timeless
unfallen. For it is beautiful, true
but brutal as well. Pain remains, taboo
Death continues its evil reign. Unless
We view both halves we reach the wrong verdict.

PMD (Charles Petersen) on 5 November 2000 for AP English.
Btw: this is my first attempt at serious poetry...

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