Here, too, truth lies in between.
A flood of ink in our heads.
They are equally wrong, those who bereave
and those bereft. They see,

those who venture across the line,
a difference, think "not the same, no"
but then watch someone cast a stone
to the other side, and there too a child cries.

Far from the truth lies a pair of glasses,
broken, knocked from a face.
What could once be seen has been erased,
an empty space, a missing link.

Far from the truth flows no ink.