Troubt

For I have nothing now to say;
My words escape me, truth and lie alike.
And from my mouth they slowly fall
Never truly having carried much weight.

Were I to say, and say and mean,
An easy phrase to tie around my neck
And wear to protest any doubts
that Belief is something that comes easily?

Are words in truth, or truth in words?
Which is container, and what is contained?
Which is first-- Believer, or Belief?
What is first-- The tamer, or the tamed?
Is music in the notes, or in the chords?

Or Both.
At most,

What is Truth without its brother Doubt--
Wrists conjoined and tied together
And wandering together far until they're found
By believers starving to believe,
Who mangle and tear, and tear apart
The brothers till they bleed
Around their wrists, but still remain undone.

And few make the mistake, which I have often done,
to throw out Truth, preserving one.

But that which binds together these is cruel enough to know
That they won't undo easily, save through death or life. Or both.