The Last Small Shred of Truth

She looked all through her house, but couldn’t find,
The thing that she had lost, but didn’t know:
That last small shred of truth, a piece of mind,
Or peace of mind, she lost so long ago

She walked out to the sound of marching bands,
The wild reveling was in full force;
The oh-so-sure were locked and holding hands,
Implacable and set upon their course

She searched the streets to find smallest trace,
That maybe that one shred had come to rest:
But with each tromping foot and eager face,
She knew that it must finally be confessed

That maybe truth has had its final day —
The last small shred of truth
She’d thrown away

Published by

Beleaguered Servant

Owen Servant is an online poet working in a style that's been described as "compulsive". In real life, he is an actuary, because being a poet wasn't unpopular enough.

2 thoughts on “The Last Small Shred of Truth”

Leave a Reply