Interim

Truth falls apart, men tremble, quake and roar -
No, "we", I mean, for "men"'s been sundered, too.
We rend the robes, the scapulars we wore,
Our flags wave, though self-evident, untrue,
And men - no, "we" again, say truth is dead:
The truths we knew are gone, and they were all.
We find no bed to rest a wearied head,
We find no roof remains, nor standing wall.
Now wand'ring through the wasteland that is left,
We do not think (or dare!) to look beneath
And find the truth is buried, but bereft,
We rest, instead, on black-burnt laurel wreath,
And revel in the shattered truths around,
While real truth hides, new diamonds yet unfound.