The truth of things is not in the thing itself.
It percolates upward to the surface from within, it bubbles up
To guide us, though the choices are never easy.
It is death-defying
Like walking from one of the Twin Towers across
To the other, on strands of wire, thick as limbs,
Insane to onlookers who secretly hope that he will fall
All the while, the walker stepping through air as if he were painting.
What if life were a live art and each one of us, an artist,
Lost in our own form of madness,
Surrendering to beauty whenever possible?
Your greatest work lies just ahead of you,
Foot over foot on the wire that is yours,
In the dim gray possibility of tomorrow.
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